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S    £ 


POPULAR  NOVELS. 

By  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmes. 

I. — TEMPEST  AND  80NSHINB. 
II. — ENGLISH  ORPHANS. 
IIL— HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLODB. 
IV.— LENA  RIVERS. 

V.— MEADOW  BROOK. 
VI.— DORA  DEANE. 
VII.— COUSIN  MAUDK. 
VIII.— MARIAN  GRAY. 

IX. — DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 

X. — HUGH  WORTHINGTOH. 
XL — CAMERON  PRIDE. 
XII.— ROSE  MATHER. 
XIII.— ETHELYN'S  MISTAKB. 
XIV.— MILLBANK. 
XV.— EDNA  BBOWNING.      (New.) 


Mrs.  Holmes  Is  a  peculiarly  pleasant  and  fascinating  writer. 
Her  books  are  always  entertaining,  and  nhe  has 
the  rare  faculty  of  enlisting  the  sympathy 
and  affections  of  her  readers,  and  of 
holding  their  attention  to  her 
pages  with  deep  and 
absorbing  inter- 
est. 


AD  published  uniform  with  this  volume.    Price  $1.50  each, 
and  sent  free  by 'mail,  on  receipt  of  price  by 

G.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO., 
New  York. 


DARKNESS    AiND    DAYLIGHT. 


BoktL 


BY 


MRS.  MARY  J.  HOLMES, 

AXJTHO*    Of    ''LENA.    RIVEB8,"     "  MARIAN    GBEY,"     "MEADOW 

,"    "  DOBA  DEANE,"    COU3IN  MAtTDE,"    "  TKK~ 
PEST  AND  SUN3I1INE,  "  ENGLISH  ORPHANS,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 

Carleton,  Publisher,  Madison  Square. 


LONDON:  S.  LOW,  SON  &  CO. 
M  DCCC  LXXin. 


Satercd  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tl.e  year    1334,  by 
DANIEL    HOLMES, 

£4  tto  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  ot  the  Korfheru  District  o 
Mew  York. 


Stack 
Annex 

5 


CONTENTS. 


I.      COLLINOWOOD .  .  ,7 

H.  EDITH  HASTINGS  OOE3  TO  COLLIHO  WOOD.                .            .                     J  8 

til.       QSACE  ATHERTON .  .    20 

if.  RICHARD   AND   EDITH          .           .           .                       .           .                    2f 

T.  VISITORS  AT  COLLINGV70OD  AMD  VISITORS  AT  BEIS2  Hill   .            38 

YI.      ARTHUR  AHD  EDITH. 47 

VH.       RICHAIID  AND   ARTHUR. 63 

Till.  RICHAED  AND  EDITH.             .......       69 

IX.      -WOMANHOOD.  68 

X.  EDITH  AT  HOME.            ........       79 

XI.  MATTERS  AT  GRASSY  8PRIN"O.              .....           89 

XII.  LESSONS.              .           .            .           .           .           .           .           .            .104 

XIII.       FRIDAY Ill 

XIV        THE  MYSTERY  AT  GRASSY  SPRING 117 

XV.      NtNA. 127 

xvi.  ARTHUR'S  STORY.     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .136 

XVTI.      NINA  AND  MIGGIE 150 

IVllI.  DR.  ORISWOLD.           ........       161 

XIX       EX  OFFICIO .  .  .  174 

XX,      TUB  DECISION •  181 

XXI  THE  DEERINO  WOODS.    .           .            .                        .           .           .            188 

XXII.       rHE  DARKNESS  DEEPENS •      .         197 

XXIII  PARTING.  .....                                     '              20»I 

XXIV  THF  NINETSame  BJBTHDAT.  ,        218 


1630464 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Chap.  Pag« 

XXV.  DESTINY. 236 

XXVI.  EDITH  AND  THE  WORLD.              .....  248 

XXVII.  THE  LAND  OF  FLOWEK3 264 

XXVIII.  SUNNYBANK.              .......  275 

XXIX.  THE  SISTERS.        .           .                                    ....  284 

XXX.  ARTHUR  AND  NINA 803 

XXXI..  LAST  DAYS 810 

XXXII.  PARTING  WITH  THE  DEAD  AND  PARTING  WITH  THE  LIVING.  320 

XXXIII.  HOME. 830 

xxxiv.  NINA'S  LETTER. 838 

XXXV.  THE  FIERY  TEST. 846 

XXXVI.  THE  SACRIFICE.               ....  852 

TXXVII.  THE  BRIDAL 860 

XISVIII.  BIX  YEARS  LATE*.             .           .  306 


DARKLESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

COLLINGWOOD. 

Collin<nvood  was  to  have  a  tenant  at  last.     For  twelve 

O 

long  years  its  massive  walls  of  dark  grey  stone  had 
frowned  in  gloomy  silence  upon  the  passers-by,  the  terror 
of  the  superstitious  ones,  who  had  peopled  its  halls  with 
ghosts  and  goblins,  saying  even  that  the  snowy-haired  old 
man,  its  owner,  had  more  than  once  been  seen  there,  mov- 
ing restlessly  from  room  to  room  and  muttering  of  the 
darkness  which  came  upon  him  when  he  lost  his  fair 
young  wife  and  her  -beautiful  baby  Charlie.  The  old  man 
was  not  dead,  but  for  years  he  had  been  a  stranger  to  his 
former  home. 

In  foreign  lands  he  had  wandered  —  up  and  down,  up 
and  down  —  from  the  snow-clad  hills  of  Russia  to  where 
the  blue  skies  of  Italy  bent  softly  over  him  and  the  sun- 
ny plains  of  France  smiled  on  him  a  welcome.  But  the 
darkness  he  bewailed  was  there  as  elsewhere,  and  to  his 
son  he  said,  at  last,  "  We  will  go  to  America,  but  not  to 
Collingwood  —  not  where  Lucy  used  to  live,  and  where 
the  boy  was  born." 

So  they  came  back  again  and  made  for  themselves  a 
home  on  the  shore  of  the  silvery  lake  so  famed  in  song, 
where  they  hoped  to  rest  from  their  weary  journeyings. 
But  it  was  not  so  decreed.  Slowly  as  poison  works  with* 
in  the  blood,  a  fearful  blight  was  stealing  upon  the  noble^ 


8  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

uncomplaining  Richard,  who  had  sacrificed  his  early  man- 
hood to  his  father's  fancies,  and  when  at  last  the  blow  had 
fallen  and  crushed  him  in  its  might,  he  became  as  help- 
less as  a  little  child,  looking  to  others  for  the  aid  he  had 
heretofore  been  accustomed  to  render.  Then  it  was  that 
the  weak  old  man  emerged  for  a  time  from  beneath  the 
cloud  which  had  enveloped  him  so  long,  and  winding  his 
arms  around  his  stricken  boy,  said,  submissively,  "  What 
will  p*oor  Dick  have  me  do  ?  " 

"Go  to  Collingwood,  where  I  know  every  walk  and 
winding  path,  and  where  the  world  will  not  seem  so 
dreary,  for  I  shall  be  at  home." 

The  father  had  not  expected  this,  and  his  palsied  hands 
shook  nervously ;  but  the  terrible  misfortune  of  his  son 
had  touched  a  chord  of  pity,  and  brought  to  his  darkened 
mind  a  vague  remembrance  of  the  years  in  which  the  un- 
selfish Richard  had  thought  only  of  his  comfort,  and  so 
he  answered  sadly,  "  "We  will  go  to  Collingwood." 

One  week  more,  and  it  was  known  in  Shannondale, 
tfiat  crazy  Captain  Harrington  and  his  son,  the  handsome 
Squire  Richard,  were  coming  again  to  the  old  homestead, 
which  was  first  to  be  fitted  up  in  a  most  princely  style. 
All  through  the  summer  months  the  extensive  improve- 
ments and  repairs  went  on,  awakening  the  liveliest  interest 
in  the  villagers,  who  busied  themselves  with  watching  and 
reporting  the  progress  of  events  at  Collingwood.  Fires 
were  kind-led  on  the  marble  hearths,  and  the  flames  went 
roaring  up  the  broad-mouthed  chimneys,  frightening  from 
their  nests  of  many  years  the  croaking  swallows,  and 
gearing  away  the  bats,  which  had  so  long  held  holiday  in 
the  deserted  rooms.  Partitions  were  removed,  folding 
doors  were  made,  windows  were  cut  down,  and  large 
panes  of  glass  were  substituted  for  those  of  more  ancient 
date.  The  grounds  and  garden  too  were  reclaimed  from 
the  waste  of  briers  and  weeds  which  had  so  wantonly 
rioted  there ;  and  the  waters  of  the  fish-por.d,  relieved  of 


COLLINGWOOD.  9 

their  dark  green  slime  and  decaying  leaves,  gleamed  once 
moi-e  in  the  summer  sunshine  like  a  sheet  of  burnished 
silver,  while  a  fairy  boat  lay  moored  upon  its  bosom  as  in 
the  olden  tune.  Softly  the  hillside  brooklet  fell,  like  a 
miniature  cascade,  into  the  little  pond,  and  the  low  music 
it  made  blended  harmoniously  with  the  fall  of  the  foun- 
tain not  far  away. 

It  was  indeed  a  beautiful  place ;  and  when  the  furnish- 
ing process  began,  crowds  of  eager  people  daily  thronged 
the  spacious  rooms,  commenting  upon  the  carpets,  the 
curtains,  the  chandeliers,  the  furniture  of  rosewood  and 
marble,  and  marvelling  much  why  Richard  Harrington 
should  care  for  surroundings  so  costly  and  elegant.  Could 
it  be  that  he  intended  surprising  them  with  a  bride  ?  It 
was  possible  —  nay,  more,  it  was  highly  probable  that 
weary  of  his  foolish  sire's  continual  mutterings  of  "Lucy 
and  the  darkness,"  he  had  found  some  fair  young  girl  to 
share  the  care  with  him,  and  this  was  her  gilded  cage. 

Shannondale  was  like  all  country  towns,  and  the  idea 
once  suggested,  the  story  rapidly  gained  ground,  until  at 
last  it  reached  the  ear  of  Grace  Atherton,  the  pretty  young 
widow,  whose  windows  looked  directly  across  the  stretches 
of  meadow  and  woodland  to  where  Collingwood  lifted  its 
single  tower  and  its  walls  of  dark  grey  stone.  As  became 
the  owner  of  Brier  Hill  and  the  widow  of  a  judge,  Grace 
held  herself  somewhat  above  the  rest  of  the  villagers,  as- 
sociating with  but  few,  and  finding  her  society"  mostly  in 
the  city  not  many  miles  away. 

When  her  cross,  gouty,  phthisicy,  fidgety  old  husband 
lay  sick  for  three  whole  months,  she  nursed  him  so  pa- 
tiently that  people  wondered  if  it  could  be  she  loved  the 
turly  dog,  and  one  woman,  bolder  than  the  others,  asked 
her  if  she  did. 

"Love  him?  No,"  she  answered,  "but  I  shall  do  my 
duty." 

So  when  he  died  she  made  him  a  grand  funeral,  but  did 


lO  DARKNESS   AND    DAYLIGHT. 

not  pretend  that  she  was  sorry.  She  was  not,  and  the 
night  on  which  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  Brier  Hill  a 
widow  of  twenty-one  saw  her  a  happier  woman  than 
when  she  first  crossed  it  as  a  bride.  Such  was  Grace 
Atherton,  a  proud,  independent,  but  well  principled  wo- 
man, attending  strictly  to  her  own  affairs,  and  expecting 
others  to  do  the  same.  In  the  gossip  concerning  Colling- 
wood,  she  had  taken  no  verbal  part,  but  there  was  no  one 
more  deeply  interested  than  herself,  spite  of  her  studied 
indifference. 

"  You  never  knew  the  family,"  a  lady  caller  said  to  her 
one  morning,  when  at  a  rather  late  hour  she  sat  languidly 
sipping  her  rich  chocolate,  and  daintily  picking  at  the 
snowy  rolls  and  nicely  buttered  toast,  "  you  never  knew 
them  or  you  would  cease  to  wonder  why  the  village  peo- 
ple take  so  much  interest  in  their  movements,  and  are  so 
glad  to  have  them  back." 

"  I  have  heard  their  story,"  returned  Mrs.  Atherton, 
"  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  son  is  a  very  fine  specimen  of 
an  old  bachelor;  thirty-five,  isn't  he.  or  thereabouts?" 

"  Thirty-five !  "  and  Kitty  Maynard  raised  her  hands  in 
dismay.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Atherton,  he's  hardly  thirty  yet, 
and  those  who  have  seen  him  since  his  return  from 
Europe,  pronounce  him  a  splendid  looking  man,  with  an 
air  of  remarkably  high  breeding.  I  wonder  if  there  is 
any  truth  in  the  report  that  he  is  to  bring  with  him  a 
bride." 

"  A  bride,  Kitty ! "  and  the  massive  silver  fork  dropped 
from  Grace  Atherton's  hand. 

She  was  interested  now,  and  nervously  pulling  the 
gathers  of  her  white  morning  gown,  she  listened  while 
the  loquacious  Kitty  told  her  what  she  knew  of  the  im- 
aginary wife  of  Richard  Harrington.  The  hands  ceased 
their  working  at  the  gathers,  and  assuming  an  air  of  in« 
difference,  Grace  rang  her  silver  bell,  which  was  immedi- 
ately answered  by  a  singular  looking  girl,  wbom  she  ud« 


COLLINGWOOD.  11 

fcfessed  as  Edith,  bidding  her  bring  some  orange  marma- 
lade from  an  adjoinirg  closet.  Her  orders  were  obeyed, 
and  then  the  child  lingered  by  the  door,  listening  eagerly 
to  the  conversation  which  Grace  had  resumed  concerning 
Collingwood  and  its  future  mistress. 

Edith  Hastings  was  a  strange  child,  with  a  strange  hab- 
it of  expressing  her  thoughts  aloud,  and  as  she  heard  the 
beauties  of  Collingwood  described  in  Kitty  Maynard's 
most  glowing  terms,  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  jolly 
don't  I  wTish  I  could  live  there,  only  I'd  be  afraid  of  that 
boy  who  haunts  the  upper  rooms." 

"  Edith  ! "  said  Mrs.  Atherton,  sternly,  "  why  are  you 
waiting  here  ?  Go  at  once  to  Rachel  and  bid  her  give 
you  something  to  do." 

Thus  rebuked  the  black-eyed,  black-haired,  black-faced 
little' girl  walked  away,  not  cringingiy,  for  Edith  Hastings 
possessed  a  spirit  as  proud  as  that  of  her  high  born  mis- 
tress., and  she  went  slowly  to  the  kitchen,  where,  under 
Rachel's  directions,  she  was  soon  in  the  mysteries  of  dish- 
washing, while  the  ladies  in  the  parlor  continued  their 
conversation. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with  that  child,"  said 
Grace,  as  Edith's  footsteps  died  away.  I  sometimes  wish 
I  had  left  her  where  I  found  her." 

"  Why,  I  thought  her  a  very  bright  little  creatxire,"  said 
Kitty,  and  her  companion  replied, 

"  She's  too  bright,  and  that's  the  trouble.  She  imitates 
me  in  everything,  walks  like  me,  talks  like  me,  and  yes- 
terday I  fcmnd  her  in  the  drawing-room  going  through 
with  a  pantomine  of  receiving  calls  the  way  I  do.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  her  stately  bow  when  presented  to 
an  imaginary  stranger." 

"Did  she  do  credit  to  you?"  Kitty  asked,  and  Grace 
replied, 

*  I  can't  say  that  she  did  not,  but  I  don't  like  this  dis- 
position of  hei-s  to  put  on  the  airs  of  people  above  her. 
Now  if  she  were  not  a  poor 


12  DAYLIGHT   AND   DARK1TESS. 

"Look,  look!"  interrupted  Kitty,  "that  must  be  th& 
five  hundred  dollar  piano  sent  up  from  Boston,"  and  she 
directed  her  companion's  attention  to  the  long  wagon 
which  was  passing  the  house  on  the  way  to  Collingwood 

This  brought  the  conversation  back  from  the  aspiring 
Edith  to  Richard  Harrington,  and  as  old  Rachel  soon 
came  in  to  remove  her  mistress'  breakfast,  Kitty  took  her 
leave,  saying  as  she  bade  her  friend  good  morning, 

"  I  trust  it  will  not  be  long  before  you  know  him." 

"  Know  him !  "  repeated  Grace,  when  at  last  she  was 
alone.  "  Just  as  if  I  had  not  known  him  to  my  sorrow. 
Oh,  Richard,  Richard !  maybe  you'd  forgive  me  if  you 
knew  what  I  have  suffered,"  and  the  proud,  beautiful  eyes 
filled  with  tears  as  Grace  Atherton  plucked  the  broad 
gi-een  leaves  from  the  grape  vine  over  her  head,  and  tear- 
ing them  in  pieces  scattered  the  fragments  upon  the  floor 
of  the  piazza.  "Was  there  to  be  a  bride  at  Colling- 
wood ?  "  This  was  the  question  which  racked  her  brain, 
keeping  her  in  a  constant  state  of  feverish  excitement  un- 
til the  very  morning  came  when  the  family  were  expected. 

Mrs.  Matson,  the  former  housekeeper,  had  resumed  her 
old  position,  and  though  she  came  often  to  Brier  Hill  to 
consult  the  taste  of  Mrs.  Atherton  as  to  the  arrangement 
of  curtains  and  furniture,  Grace  was  too  haughtily  polite 
to  question  her,  and  every  car  whistle  found  her  at  the 
window  watching  for  the  carriage  and  a  sight  of  its  in- 
mates. One  after  another  the  western  trains  arrived,  and 
the  soft  September  twilight  deepened  into  darker  night, 
showing  to  the  expectant  Grace  the  numerous  lights 
shining  from  the  windows  of  Collingwood.  Edith  Has- 
tings,  too,  imbued  with  something  of  her  mistress'  spirit.,, 
was  on  the  alert,  and  when  the  last  train  in  which  thc-y 
could  possibly  come,  thundered  through  the  toAvn,  her 
quick  ear  was  the  first  to  catch  the  sound  of  wheels 
grinding  slowly  up  the  hill. 

"  They  are  coming,  Mrs.  Atherton ! "  she   cried ;    and 


EDITH   HASTINGS   GOES    TO   COLLINGWOOD.  "18 

nimble  as  a  squirrel  she  climbed  the  great  gate  post,  where 
with  her  elf  locks  floating  about  her  sparkling  face,  she 
sat,  while  the  carriage  passed  slowly  by,  then  saying  to 
herself,  "Pshaw,  it  wasn't  worth  the  trouble  —  I  never 
saw  a  thing,"  she  slid  down  from  her  high  position,  and 
stealing  in  the  back  way  so  as  to  avoid  tl  e  scolding  Mrs. 
Atherton  was  sure  to  give  her,  she  crept  up  to  her  own 
chamber,  where  she  stood  long  by  the  open  window, 
watching  the  lights  at  Collingwood,  and  wondering  if  it 
would  make  a  person  perfectly  happy  to  be  its  mistress 
and  the  bride  of  Richard  Harrington. 


CHAPTER  II. 

EDITH   HASTINGS   GOES    TO   COLLINGWOOD. 

The  question  Edith  had  asked  herself,  standing  by  hep 
chamber  window,  was  answered  by  Grace  Atherton  sit- 
ting near  her  own.  "  Yes,  the  bride  of  Richard  Harring- 
ton must  be  perfectly  happy,  if  bride  indeed  there  were." 
She  was  beginning  to  feel  some  doubt  upon  this  point, 
for  strain  her  eyes  as  she  might,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
detect  the  least  signs  of  femininity  in  the  passing  car- 
riage, and  hope  whispered  that  the  brightest  dream  she 
had  ever  dreamed  might  yet  be  realized. 

"  I'll  let  him  know  to-morrow,  that  I'm  here,"  she  said, 
as  she  shook  out  her  wavy  auburn  hair,  and  thought,  with 
a  glow  of  pride,  how  beautiful  it  was.  "  I'll  send  Edith 
with  my  compliments  and  a  bouquet  of  flowers  to  the 
ride.  She'll  deliver  them  better  than  any  one  else,  if  I 
can  once  make  her  understand  what  I  wish  her  to  do." 

Accordingly,  the  next  morning,  as  Edith  sat  upon  the 
Bteps  of  the  kitchen  door,  talking  to  herself,  Grace  ap» 
peared  before  her  with  a  tastefully  arranged  bouquet^ 


14  DAKKJSTESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

which  she  bade  her  take  with  her  compliments  to  Mra 
Richard  Harrington,  if  there  was  such  a  body,  and  to  Mr 
Richard  Harrington  if  there  were  not. 

"  Do  you  understand  ?  "  she  asked,  and  Edith  far  more 
interested  in  her  visit  to  Collingwood  than  in  what  sbo 
w;is  to  do  when  she  reached  there,  replied, 

"  Of  course  I  do;  I'm 'to  give  your  compliments  ;"  and 
she  jammed  her  hand  into  the  pocket  of  her  gingham 
apron,  as  if  to  make  sure  the  compliments  were  there. 
"  I'm  to  give  them  to  Mr.  Richard,  if  there  is  one,  and  the 
flowers  to  Mrs.  Richard,  if  there  ain't ! " 

Grace  groaned  aloud,  while  old  Rachel,  the  colored 
cook,  who  on  all  occasions  was  Edith's  champion,  remov- 
ed her  hands  from  the  dough  she  was  kneading  and  com- 
ing towards  them,  chimed  in,  "  She  ain't  fairly  got  it 
through  her  har,  Miss  Grace.  She's  such  a  substracted 
way  with  her  that  you  mostly  has  to  tell  her  twicet,"  and 
in  her  own  peculiar  style  Rachel  succeeded  in  making  the 
"substracted  "  child  comprehend  the  nature  of  her  errand. 

"  Now  don't  go  to  blunderin',"  was  Rachel's  parting  in- 
junction, as  Edith  left  the  yard  and  turned  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Collingwood. 

It  was  a  mellow  September  morning,  and  after  leaving 
the  main  road  and  entering  the  gate  of  Collingwood,  the 
young  girl  lingered  by  the  way,  admiring  the  beauty  of 
the  grounds,  and  gazing  with  feelings  of  admiration  upon 
the  massive  building,  surrounded  by  majestic  maples,  and 
basking  so  quietly  in  the  warm  sunlight.  At  the  marble 
fountain  she  paused  for  a  long,  long  time,  talking  to  the 
golden  fishes  which  darted  so  swiftly  past  each  other,  and 
Dishing  she  could  take  them  in  her  hand  "just  to  see 
them  squirm  " 

"  I  mean  to  catch  one  any  way,"  she  said,  and  glancing 
nervously  at  the  windows  to  make  sure  no  Mrs.  Richard 
was  watching  her,  she  bared  her  round,  plump  arm, 
thrust  it  into  the  water,  just  as  a  footstep  sounded  near 


EDITH   HASTINGS    GOES    TO    COLLINGWOOD.  JT5 

Quickly  withdrawing  her  hand  and  gathering  up  hei 
bouquet,  she  turned  about  and  saw  approaching  her  one 
of  Collingwood's  ghosts.  She  knew  him  in  a  moment, 
fr.r  she  had  heard  him  described  too  often  to  mistake  that 
white-haired,  bent  old  man  for  other  than  Capt.  Harring- 
ton. He  did  not  chide  her  as  she  supposed  he  would, 
neither  did  he  seem  in  the  least  surprised  to  see  her  there. 
On  the  conti'ary,  his  withered,  wrinkled  face  brightener1 
with  a  look  of  eager  expectancy,  as  he  said  to  her,  "  Littk- 
girl,  can  you  tell  me  where  Charlie  is?" 

"  Charlie  ?  "  she  repeated,  retreating  a  step  or  two  as  he 
approached  neai-er  and  seemed  about  to  lay  his  hand  upon 
her  hair,  for  her  bonnet  was  hanging  down  her  back,  and 
her  wild  gipsy  locks  fell  in  rich  profusion  about  her  face. 
"  I  don't  know  any  boy  by  that  name.  I'm  nobody  but 
Edith  Hastings,  Mrs.  Atherton's  waiting  maid,  and  she 
don't  let  me  play  with  boys.  Only  Tim  Doolittle  and  I 
went  huckleberrying  once,  but  I  hate  him,  he  has  such 
great  warts  on  his  hands,"  and  having  thus  given  her 
opinion  of  Tim  Doolittle,  Edith  snatched  up  her  bonnet 
and  placed  it  upon  her  head,  for  the  old  man  was  evident- 
ly determined  to  touch  her  crow-black  hair. 

Her  answer,  however,  changed  the  current  of  his 
thoughts,  and  while  a  look  of  intense  pain  flitted  across 
his  face,  he  whispered  mournfully,  "  The  same  old  stoiy 
they  all  tell.  I  might  have  known  it,  but  this  one  looked 
so  fresh,  so  truthful,  that  I  thought  maybe  she'd  seen  him. 
Mrs.  Atherton's  waiting  maid,"  and  he  turned  toward 
Edith  —  "  Charlie's  dead,  and  we  all  walk  in  darkness  now 
Richard  and  all." 

This  allusion  to  Richard  reminded  Edith  of  her  errand, 
and  thinking  to  herself,  "  I'll  ask  the  crazy  old  thing  if 
there's  a  lady  here,"  she  ran  after  him  as  he  walked  slowly 
away  and  catching  him  by  the  arm,  said,  "  Tell  me,  please, 
is  there  any  Mrs.  Richard  Harrington  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.     They've  kept  it  from  me  if  there 


16  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

is,  but  there's  Richard,  he  can  tell  you,"  and  he  pointed 
toward  a  man  in  a  distant  part  of  the  grounds. 

Curtesying  to  her  companion,  Edith  ran  off  in  the  di 
ruction  of  the  figure  moving  so  slowly  down  the  gravelled 
walk. 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  him  set  his  feet  down  so  care- 
ftilly,"  she  thought,  as  she  Came  nearer  to  him.  "Mayl»e 
there  are  pegs  in  his  shoes,  just  as  there  were  in  mine  last 
winter,"  and  the  barefoot  little  girl  glanced  at  her  naked 
toes,  feeling  glad  they  were  for  the  present  out  of  torture. 

By  this  time  she  was  within  a  few  rods  of  the  strange 
acting  man,  who,  hearing  her  rapid  steps,  stopped,  and 
turning  round  with  a  wistful,  questioning  look,  said, 

«  Who's  there  ?    Who  is  it  ?  " 

The  tone  of  his  voice  was  rather  sharp,  and  Edith 
paused  suddenly,  while  he  made  an  uncertain  movement 
toward  her,  still  keeping  his  ear  turned  in  the  attitude  of 
intense  listening. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  thinks  of  me  ?  "  was  Edith's  mental 
comment  as  the  keen  black  eyes  appeared  to  scan  her 
closely. 

Alas,  he  was  not  thinking  of  her  at  all,  and  soon  re- 
suming his  walk,  he  whispered  to  himself,  "  They  must 
have  gone  some  other  way." 

Slowly,  cautiously  he  moved  on,  never  dreaming  of  the 
little  sprite  behind  him,  who,  imitating  his  gait  and  man- 
ner, put  down  her  chubby  bare  feet  just  when  his  went 
down,  looking  occasionally  over  her  shoulder  to  see  if  her 
clothes  swung  from  side  to  side  just  like  Mrs.  AthertonX 
and  treading  so  so'ftly  that  he  did  not  hear  her  until  he 
reached  the  summer-house,  whon  the  cracking  of  a  twig 
betrayed  the  presence  of  some  one,  and  again  that  sad, 
troubled  voice  demanded,  "  Who  is  here  ? "  while  the 
arms  were  stretched  out  as  if  to  grasp  the  intruder,  who- 
ever it  might  be. 

Edith  was  growing  excited.     It  reminded  her  of  blind 


EDITH   HASTINGS   GOES   TO   COLLrNGWOOD.  17 

man's  bui£  and  she  bent  her  head  to  elude  the  hand 
which  came  so  near  entangling  itself  in  her  hair.  Again 
a  profound  silence  ensued,  and  thinking  it  might  hav6 
been  a  fancy  of  his  brain  that  some  one  was  there  with 
him,  poor  blind  Richard  Harrington  sat  down  within  the 
arbor,  where  the  pleasant  September  sunshine,  stealing 
through  the  thick  vine  leaves,  fell  in  dancing  circles  upon 
his  broad  white  brow,  above  which  his  jet  black  hair  lay 
in  rings.  He  was  a  tall,  dark,  handsome  man,  with  a  sin- 
gular cast  of  countenance,  and  Edith  felt  that  she  had 
never  seen  anything  so  grand,  so  noble,  and  yet  so  help- 
less as  the  man  sitting  there  before  her.  She  knew  now 
that  he  was  blind,  and  she  was  almost  glad  that  it  was  so, 
for  had  it  been  otherwise  she  would  never  have  dared  to 
<scan  him  as  she  was  doing  now.  She  would  not  for  the 
world  have  met  the  flash  of  those  keen  black  eyes,  had 
chey  not  been  sightless,  and  she  quailed  even  now,  when 
'•hey  were  bent  upon  her,  although  she  knew  their  glance 
<eas  meaningless.  It  seemed  to  her  so  terrible  to  be  blind, 
and  she  wondered  why  he  should  care  to  have  his  house 
and  grounds  so  handsome  when  he  could  not  see  them. 
Still  she  was  pleased  that  they  were  so,  for  there  was  a 
singular  fitness,  she  thought,  between  this  splendid  man 
and  his  surroundings. 

"  I  wish  he  had  a  little  girl  like  me  to  lead  him  and  be 
good  to  him,"  was  her  next  mental  comment,  and  the  wild 
idea  crossed  her  brain  that  possibly  Mrs.  Atherton  would 
let  her  come  up  to  Collingwood  and  be  his  waiting  maid. 
This  brought  to  mind  a  second  time  the  object  of  her 
being  there  now,  and  she  began  to  devise  the  best  plan 
for  de^vering  the  bouquet.  "  I  don't  believe  he  cares  for 
the  compliments,"  she  said  to  herself,  M  any  way,  I'll  keep 
them  till  another  time,"  but  the  flowers ;  how  should  she 
give  those  to  him  ?  She  was  beginning  to  be  very  much 
afraid  of  the  figure  sitting  there  so  silently,  and  at  last 
mustering  all  her  courage,  she  gave  a  preliminary  cough, 


18  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

which  started  him  to  his  feet,  and  as  his  tall  form  towered 
above  her  she  felt  her  fears  come  back,  and  scarcely 
knowing  what  she  was  doing  she  thrust  the  bouquet  into 
his  hand,  saying  as  she  did  so,  '•'-Poor  blind  man,  I  am  so 
sorry  and  I've  brought  you  some  nice  flowers." 

The  next  moment  she  was  gone,  and  Richard  heard  the 
patter  of  her  feet  far  up  the  gravelled  walk  ere  he  had. 
recovered  from  his  surprise.  Who  was  she,  and  why  had 
she  remembered  him  ?  The  voice  was  very,  very  sweet, 
thrilling  him  with  a  strange  melody,  which  carried  him 
back  to  a  summer  sunset  years  ago,  when  on  the  banks 
of  the  blue  Rhine  he  had  listened  to  a  beautiful,  dark- 
eyed  Swede  singing  her  infant  daughter  to  sleep.  Then 
the  river  itself  appeared  before  him,  cold  and  grey  with 
the  November  frosts,  and  on  its  agitated  surface  he  saw  a 
little  dimpled  hand  disappearing  from  view,  while  the 
shriek  of  the  dark-eyed  Swede  told  that  her  child  was 
gone.  A  plunge  —  a  fearful  struggle  —  and  he  held  the 
limp,  white  object  in  his  arms ;  he  bore  it  to  the  shore ;  he 
heard  them  say  that  he  had  saved  its  life,  and  then  he 
turned  aside  to  change  his  dripping  garments  and  warm 
His  icy  limbs.  This  was  the  first  picture  brought  to  his 
mind  by  Edith  Hastings'  voice.  The  second  was  a  sadder 
one,  and  he  groaned  aloud  as  he  remembered  how  from 
the  time  of  the  terrible  cold  taken  then,  and  the  severe 
illness  which  followed,  his  eyesight  had  begun  to  fail — 
slowly,  very  slowly,  it  is  true  —  and  for  years  he  could 
not  believe  that  Heaven  had  in  store  for  him  so  sad  a 
fate.  But  it  had  come  at  last  —  daylight  had  faded  out 
and  the  night  was  dark  around  him.  Once,  in  his  hoiif 
of  bitterest  agony,  he  had  cursed  that  Swedish  baby, 
wishing  it  had  perished  in  the  waters  of  the  Rhine,  ero 
he  saved  it  at  so  fearful  a  sacrifice.  But  he  had  repented 
of  the  wicked  thought ;  he  was  glad  he  saved  the  pretty 
Petrea's  child,  even  though  he  should  never  see  her  face 
again.  He'  knew  not  where  she  was,  that  girlish  wife, 


EDITH    HASTINGS    GOES    TO    COLLINGWOOD.  19 

speaking  her  broken  English  for  the  sake  of  her  American 
husband,  who  was  not  al \vays  as  kind  to  her  as  he  should 
have  been.  He  had  heard  no  tidings  of  her  since  that 
fatal  autumn.  He  had  scarcely  thought  of  her  for  months, 
but  she  came  back  to  him  now,  and  it  was  Edith's  voice 
ivhich  brought  her. 

"Poor  blind  man,"  he  whispered  aloud.  "Hew  like 
that  was  to  Petrea,  when  she  said  of  my  father,  '  Poor, 
soft  old  man  ; '  and  then  he  wondered  again  who  his  visit- 
or had  been,  and  why  she  had  left  him  so  abruptly. 

It  was  a  child,  he  knew,  and  he  prized  her  gift  the  more 
for  that,  for  Richard  Harringson  was  a  dear  lover  of  chil 
dren,  and  he  kissed  the  fair  bouquet  as  he  would  not  have 
kissed  it  had  he  known  from  yrhom  it  came.  Rising  at 
last  from  his  seat,  he  groped  his  way  back  to  the  house, 
and  ordering  one  of  the  costly  vases  in  his  room  to  be 
filled  with  water,  he  placed  the  flowers  therein,  and 
thought  how  carefully  he  would  preserve  them  for  the 
sake  of  his  unknown  friend. 

Meantime  Edith  kept  on  her  way,  pausing  once  and 
looking  back  just  in  time  to  see  Mr,  Harrington  kiss  the 
flowers  she  had  brought. 

"  I'm  glad  they  please  him,"  she  said ;  "  but  how  awful 
it  is  to  be  blind ; "  and  by  way  of  trying  the  experiment, 
she  shut  her  eyes,  and  stretching  out  her  arms,  walked 
just  as  Richard,  succeeding  so  well  that  she  was  begin- 
ing  to  consider  it  rather  agreeable  than  otherwise,  when 
she  unfortunately  ran  into  a  tall  rose-bush,  scratching  her 
forehead,  tangling  her  hair,  and  stubbing  her  toes  against 
its  gnarled  roots.  "  'Taint  so  jolly  to  be  blind  after  all," 
she  said  "  I  do  believe  Pve  broken  my  toe,"  and  extrica- 
ting herself  as  best  she  could  from  the  sharp  thorns,  she 
ran  on  as  fast  as  her  feet  could  carry  her,  wondering  what 
Mrs.  Atherton  would  say  when  she  heard  Richard  was 
blind,  and  feeling  a  kind  of  natural  delight  in  knowing 
|he  should  be  the  first  to  communicate  the  bad  news. 


20  DABKSTESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

CHAPTER  m. 

GRACE   ATHERTON. 

"Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Atherton,  who  had  seen  her 
ind  hastened  out  to  meet  her,  "  you  were  gone  a  long 
time,  I  think." 

"Yes'm,"  answered  Edith,  spitting  out  the  bonnet 
e'rings  she  had  been  chewing,  and  tossing  back  the  thick 
black  locks  which  nearly  concealed  her .  eyes  from  view. 
"  Yes'm ;  it  took  me  a  good  while  to  talk  to  old  Dark- 
aess." 

"  Talk  to  whom  ?  "  asked  Grace ;  and  Edith  returned, 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  him  if  'taint  old  Dark- 
ness ;  he  kept  muttering  about  the  dark,  and  asked  where 
Charlie  was." 

"Ole  Cap'n  Herrin'ton,"  said  Rachel.  "They  say 
how't  he's  allus  goin'  on  'bout  Charlie  an'  the  dark." 

This  explanation  was  satisfactory  to  Grace,  who  pro- 
ceeded next  to  question  Edith  concerning  Mrs.  Richard 
Harrington,  asking  if  she  saw  her,  etc. 

"  There  ain't  any  such,"  returned  Edith,  "  but  I  saw  Mr. 
Richard.  Jolly,  isn't  he  grand?  He's  as  tall  as  the 
ridge-pole,  and " 

"But  what  did  he  say  to  the  flowers?"  interrupted 
Grace,  far  more  intent  upon  knowing  how  her  gift  had 
been  received,  than  hearing  described  the  personal  ap- 
pearance of  one  she  had  seen  so  often. 

Edith  felt  intuitively  that  a  narrative  of  the  particu- 
lars attending  the  delivery  of  the  bouquet  would  insure 
her  a  scolding,  so  she  merely  answered,  "  He  didn't  say  a 
word,  only  kissed  them  hard,  but  he  can't  see  them,  Mrs. 
Atherton.  He  can't  see  me,  nor  you,  nor  anybody.  He's 
blind  as  a  bat " 

"Blind!  Richard  blind!    Oh,  Edith;"  and  the  blight 


GRACE   ATHERTON.  21 

color  \\hich  had  stained  Grace's  cheeks  when  she  knew 
that  Richard  had  kissed  her  flowers,  faded  out,  leaving 
them  of  a  pallid  hue.  Sinking  into  the  nearest  chair,  she 
kept  repeating  "  Blind  —  blind  —  poor,  poor  Richard.  It 
cannot  be.  Bring  me  some  water,  Rachel,  and  help  me  to 
my  room.  This  intensely  hot  morning  makes  me  faint." 

Rachel  could  not  be  thus  easily  deceived.  She  rernein« 
bered  an  old  house  in  England,  looking  out  upon  the  sea, 
and  the  flirtation  carried  on  all  summer  there  between  her 
mistress,  then  a  beautiful  young  girl  of  seventeen,  and  the 
tall,  handsome  man,  whom  they  called  Richard  Harring- 
ton. She  remembered,  too,  the  white-haired,  gouty  man, 
who,  later  in  the  autumn,  came  to  that  old  house,  and 
whose  half  million  Grace  had  married,  saying,  by  way  of 
apology,  that  if  Richard  chose  to  waste  his  life  in  humor- 
ing the  whims  of  his  foolish  father,  she  surely  would  not 
waste  hers  with  him.  She  would  see  the  world  ! 

Alas,  poor  Grace.  She  had  seen  the  world  and  paid 
dearly  for  the  sight,  for,  go  where  she  might,  she  saw 
always  one  face,  one  form ;  heard  always  one  voice  mur- 
muring in  her  ear,  "Could  you  endure  to  share  my 
burden?" 

No,  she  could  not,  she  said,  and  so  she  had  taken  upon 
herself  a  barden  ten-fold  heavier  to  bear  —  a  burden 
which  crushed  her  spirits,  robbed  her  cheek  of  its  youth- 
ful bloom,  and  after  which  she  sent  no  regret  when  at  last 
it  disappeared,  leaving  her  free  to  think  again  of  Richard 
Harrington.  It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  her  that  he  was 
blind,  and  talk  as  she  might  about  the  faintness  of  the 
morning,  old  Rachel  knew  the  real  cause  of  her  distress, 
and  when  alone  with  her,  said,  by  way  of  comfort, 

"  Law,  now,  Miss  Grace, '  taint  worth  a  while  to  take  on 
BO.  Like'nongh  he'll  be  cured — mebby  it's  nothin' but 
them  fetch-ed  water-falls  —  cat-a-rats,  that's  it  —  and  he 
can  have  'em  cut  out.  I  wouldn't  go  to  actin'  like  I  wai 
love-sick  for  a  man  I  'scarded  oncet." 


22  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Grace  was  far  too  proud  to  suffer  even  her  faiihfui 
Rachel  thus  to  address  her,  and  turning  her  flashing  eyes 
upon  the  old  woman,  she  said  haughtily, 

"  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  in  this  way  —  don't  you 
know  I  won't  allow  it  ?  Besides,  what  reason  have  you 
for  asserting  what  you  have  ?  " 

"  What  reason  has  I  ?  Plenty  reason  —  dis  chile  ain't 
a  fool  if  she  is  a  nigger,  raised  in  Georgy,  and  a  born 
slave  till  she  was  turned  of  thirty.  Tour  poor  inarm 
who  done  sot  me  free,  would  never  spoke  to  me  that  way. 
What  reason  has  I  ?  Fse  got  good  mem'ry  —  I  'members 
them  letters  I  used  to  tote  forrid  and  back,  over  thar  in 
England ;  and  how  you  used  to  watch  by  the  winder  till 
you  seen  him  comin,'  and  then,  gal-like,  ran  off  to  make 
him  think  you  wasn't  partic'lar  'bout  seem'  him.  But,  it 
passes  me,  what  made  you  have  ole  money  bags.  1  never 
could  see  inter  that,  when  I  knowd  how  you  hated 
his  shiny  bald  head,  and  slunk  away  if  he  offered  to 
tache  you  with  his  old,  soft,  flappy  hands.  You  are  glad 
he's  in  Heaven,  you  know  you  be ;  and  though  I  never 
said  nothin',  I  knowd  you  was  glad  that  Squire  Ilerrin'- 
ton  was  come  back  to  Collingwood,  just  as  I  knowd  what 
made  you  choke  like  a  chicken  with  the  pip  when  Edith 
tole  you  he  was  blind.  Can't  cheat  dis  chile,"  and  ad- 
justing her  white  turban  with  an  air  of  injured  dignity, 
Rachel  left  her  mistress,  and  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

"  What  ails  Mrs.  Atherton  ?  "  asked  Edith,  fancying  it 
nmst  be  something  serious  which  could  keep  the  old  ne- 
gress  so  long  from  her  bread. 

On  ordinary  occasions  the  tolerably  discreet  African 
would  have  made  some  evasive  reply,  but  with  her  feath- 
ers all  ruffled,  she  belched  out,  "  The  upshot  of  the  matter 
iB,  she's  in  love  ?  " 

"  In  love  ?     Who  does  Mrs.  Atherton  love  ?  " 

"  Him — the  blind  man,"  returned  Rachel,  adding  fierce. 
ly,  "  but  if  you  ever  let  her  know  I  told  you,  I'll  skin 


GEACE   ATHEBTON.  23 

you  alive  —  do  you  hear?  Like  enougn  she'll  be  for 
fiendin'  you  up  thai*  with  more  posies,  an'  if  she  does,  do 
you  hold  your  tongue  and  take  'em  along." 

Edith  had  no  desire  to  betray  Rachel's  confidence,  and 
slipping  one  shoulder  out  of  her  low  dress  she  darted  off 
after  a  butterfly,  wondering  to  herself  if  it  made  evejy 
body  faint  and  sick  at  their  stomach  to  be  in  love  !  It 
seemed  very  natural  that  one  as  rich  and  beautiful  as 
Grace  should  love  Richard  Harrington,  and  the  fact  that 
she  did,  insensibly  raised  in  her  estimation  the  poor,  white- 
faced  woman,  who,  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber  was 
weeping  bitterer  tears  than  she  had  shed  before  in  years. 

Could  it  be  so  ?  She  hoped  there  was  some  mistake  — • 
and  when  an  hour  later  she  heard  Kitty  Maynard's  cheer- 
ful voice  in  the  lower  hall  her  heart  gave  a  bound  as  she 
thought,  "  She'll  know  —  she's  heard  of  it  by  this  time." 

"  Please  may  I  come  in  ? "  said  Kitty,  at  her  door. 
u  Rachel  told  me  you  had  a  headache,  but  I  know  you 
won't  mind  me,"  and  ere  the  words  were  half  out  of  her 
mouth,  Kitty's  bonnet  was  off  and  she  was  perched  upon 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Have  you  heard  the  news  ? "  she 
began.  "  It's  so  wonderful,  and  so  sad,  too.  Squire  Har- 
rington is  not  married ;  he's  worse  off  than  that  —  he's 
hopelessly  blind." 

"  Indeed ! "  and  Grace  Atherton's  manner  was  very 
indifferent. 

"Yes,"  Kitty  continued.  "His  French  valet,  Victor, 
who  travelled  with  him  in  Europe,  told  brother  Will  all 
about  it.  Seven  or  eight  years  ago  they  were  spending 
the  summer  upon  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  and  in  a  cottage 
near  them  was  an  American  with  a  Swedish  wife  and 
baby.  The  man,  it  seems,  was  a  dissipated  fellow,  much 
clduv  than  his  wife,  whom  he  neglected  shamefully,  leav- 
ing her  alone  for  weeks  at  a  time.  The  baby's  name  was 
Eloise,  and  she  was  a  great  pet  with  Richard,  who  was 
f'md  of  children.  At  last,  one  day  in  autumn,  the  Fttle 


24  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

Eloise,  who  had  just  learned  to  run  alone,  wandered  off 
by  herself  to  a  blufij  or  rock,  or  something,  from  which 
she  fell  into  the  river.  The  mother,  Petrea,  was  close  by, 
and  her  terrific  shfteks  brought  Richard  to  the  spot  in 
time  to  save  the  child.  He  had  not  been  well  for  seveial 
days,  and  the  frightful  cold  he  took  induced  a  fevei1,  which 
eeemed  to  settle  in  his  eyes,  for  ever  since  his  sight  has 
been  failing  until  now  it  has  left  him  entirely.  But  hark  ! 
isn't  some  one  in  the  next  room  ?  "  and  she  stepped  into 
the  adjoining  apartment  just  as  the  nimble  Edith  disap- 
peared from  view. 

She  had  been  sent  up  by  Rachel  with  a  message  to 
Mrs.  Atherton,  and  was  just  in  tune  to  hear  the  com- 
mencement of  Kitty's  story.  Any  thing  relating  to  the 
blind  man  was  interesting  to  her,  and  so  she  listened,  her 
large  black  eyes  growing  larger  and  blacker  as  the  tale 
proceeded.  It  did  not  seem  wholly  new  to  her,  that  story 
of  the  drowning  child  —  that  cottage  on  the  Rhine,  and 
for  a  moment  she  heard  a  strain  of  low,  rich  music  sung 
as  a  lullaby  to  some  restless,  wakeful  child.  Then  the 
music,  the  cottage  and  the  blue  Rhine  faded  away.  She 
could  not  recall  them,  but  bound  as  by  a  spell  she  listened 
still,  until  the  word  Petrea  dropped  from  Kitty's  lips. 
Then  she  started  suddenly.  Surely,  she'd  heard  that 
name  before.  Whose  was  it?  When  was  it?  Where 
was  it?  She  could  not  tell,  and  she  repeated  it  in  a  whis- 
per so  loud  that  it  attracted  Kitty's  attention. 

"  I  shall  catch  it  if  she  finds  me  listening,"  thought 
Edith,  as  she  heard  Kitty's  remark,  and  in  her  haste  to 
escape  she  forgot  all  about  Petrea  —  all  about  the  lullaby, 
and  reme^nbered  nothing  save  the  noble  deed  of  the  ho 
rote  Richard.  "What  a  noble  man  he  must  bo,1'  she  said, 
u  to  save  that  baby's  life,  and  how  she  would  pity  him  if 
ghe  knew  it  made  him  blind.  I  wonder  where  she  is, 
She  must  be  most  as  big  as  I  am  now ; "  and  if  it  were 
possible  Edith's  eyes  grew  brighter  than  their  wont  a§ 


GRACE    ATHEBTON1.  25 

tihe  thought  how  had  she  been  that  Swedish  child,  she 
would  go  straight  up  to  Collingwood  and  be  the  blind 
man's  slave.  She  would  read  to  him.  She  would  see 
for  him,  and  when  he  walked,  she  would  lead  him  so 
carefully,  removing  all  the  ugly  pegs  from  his  boots,  and 
watching  to  see  that  he  did  not  stub  his  toes,  as  she  was 
always  doing  in  her  headlong  haste.  "  What  a  great  good 
man  he  is,"  she  kept  repeating,  while  at  the  same  time 
she  felt  an  undefinable  interest  in  the  Swedish  child,  whom 
at  that  very  moment,  Grace  Atherton  was  cursing  in  her 
heart  as  the  cause  of  Richard's  misfortune. 

Kitty  was  gone  at  last,  and  glad  to  be  alone  she  wept 
passionately  over  this  desolation  of  her  hopes,  wishing 
often  that  the  baby  had  perished  in  the  river  ere  it  had 
wrought  a  work  so  sad.  How  she  hated  that  Swedish 
mother  and  her  child — how  she  hated  all  children  then, 
even  the  black  haired  Edith,  out  in  the  autumn  sunshine, 
singing  to  herself  a  long-forgotten  strain,  which  had  come 
back  to  her  that  morning,  laden  with  perfume  from  the 
vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  and  with  music  from  the  Rhine. 
Softly  the  full,  rich  melody  came  stealing  through  the 
open  window,  and  Grace  Atherton  as  she  listened  to  the 
mournful  cadence  felt  her  heart  growing  less  hard  and 
bitter  toward  fate,  toward  the  world,  and  toward  the  in- 
nocent Swedish  babe.  Then  as  she  remembered  that 
Richard  kissed  the  flowers,  a  flush  mounted  to  her  brow. 
He  did  love  her  yet ;  through  all  the  dreary  -years  of  their 
separation  he  had  cluug  to  her,  and  would  it  not  atone 
for  her  former  selfishness,  if  now  that  the  world  was  dark 
to  him,  she  should  give  herself  to  the  task  of  cheering 
the  deep  darkness  ?  It  would  be  happiness,  she  thought, 
to  be  pointed  out  as  the  devoted  wife  of  the  blind  man, 
far  greater  happiness  to  bask  hi  the  sunlight  of  the  blind 
man's  love,  for  Grace  Atherton  did  love  him,  and  in  the 
might  of  her  love  she  resolved  upon  doing  that  from 
which  she  would  have  shrunk  had  he  not  been  as  helpless 
2 


26  DAEKTTESS   ASTD   DAYLIGHT. 

and  afflicted  as  he  was.  Edith  should  be  the  medium 
between  them.  Edith  should  take  him  flowers  every  day, 
until  he  signified  a  wish  for  her  to  come  herself,  when  she 
would  go,  and  sitting  by  hia  side,  would  tell  him,  perhaps, 
how  sad  her  life  had  been  since  that  choice  of  hers  made 
on  the  shore  of  the  deep  sea.  Then,  if  he  asked  her 
again  to  share  his  lonely  lot,  she  would  gladly  lay  her 
head  upon  his  bosom,  and  whisper  back  the  word  she 
should  have  said  to  him  seven  years  ago. 

It  was  a  pleasant  picture  of  the  future  which  Grace 
Atherton  drew  as  she  lay  watching  the  white  clouds  come 
and  go  over  the  distant  tree  tops  of  Collingwood,  and 
listening  to  the  song  of  Edith,  still  playing  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  when  at  dinner  time  she  failed  to  appear  at 
the  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  Edith  was  sent  in  quest  of 
her,  she  found  her  sleeping  quietly,  dreaming  of  the  Swe- 
dish babe  and  Richard  Harrington. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

RICHARD   AND   EDITH. 

On  Richard's  darkened  pathway,  there  was  now  a 
glimmer  of  daylight,  shed  by  Edith  Hastings'  visit,  and 
with  a  vague  hope  that  she  might  come  again,  he  on  the 
morrow  groped  hia  way  to  the  summer  house,  and  taking 
the  seat  where  he  sat  the  previous  day,  he  waited  and 
listened  for  the  footstep  on  the  grass  which  should  tell 
him  she  was  near.  Nor  did  he  wait  long  ere  Edith  came 
tripping  down  the  walk,  bringing  the  bouquet  which 
Grace  had  prepared  with  so  much  care. 

"  Hist ! "  dropped  involuntarily  from  her  lips,  when  sue 
descried  him,  sitting  just  where  she  had,  without  know- 
ing why,  expected  she  should  find  him,  and  her  footfall 


RICHARD    AHi>    EDITH.  21 


became  BO  light  that  none  save  the  blind  could  have  .ie« 
tected  it. 

To  Richard  there  was  something  half  amusing,  half 
ridiculous  in  the  conduct  of  the  capricious  child,  and  foi 
thfe  sake  of  knowing  what  she  would  do,  he  professed  to 
be  ignorant  of  her  presence,  and  leaning  back  against  the 
lattice,  pretended  to  be  asleep,  while  Edith  came  so  near 
that  he  could  hear  her  low  breathing  as  she  stood  still  to 
watch  him.  Nothing  could  please  her  more  than  his 
present  attitude,  for  with  his  large  bright  eyes  shut  she 
dared  to  look  at  him  as  much  and  as  long  as  she  chose 
He  was  to  her  now  a  kind  of  divinity,  which  she  worship- 
ped for  the  sake  of  the  Swedish  baby  rescued  from  a 
watery  grave,  and  she  longed  to  wind  her  arms  around 
his  neck  and  tell  him  how  she  loved  him  for  that  act;  bivt 
she  dared  not,  and  she  contented  herself  with  whispering 
softly,  "  If  I  wasn't  so  spunky  and  ugly,  I'd  pray  every 
night  that  God  would  make  you  see  again.  Poor  blind 
man/' 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  deep  pathos  of 
Edith's  voice  as  she  uttered  the  last  three  words.  Love, 
admiration,  compassion  and  pity,  all  were  blended  in  the 
tone,  and  it  is  not  strange  that  it  touched  an  answering 
chord  in  the  heart  of  the  "  poor  blind  man."  Slowly  the 
broad  chest  heaved,  and  tears,  the  first  he  had  shed  since 
the  fearful  morning  when  they  led  him  into  the  sunlight 
he  felt  but  could  not  see,  moistened  his  lashes,  and  drop- 
ped upon  his  face. 

"  He's  dreaming  a  bad  dream,"  Edith  said,  and  with 
her  little  chubby  hand  she  brushed  his  teare  away,  cau- 
tiously, lest  she  should  rouse  him  from  his  slumbers. 

Soilly  she  put  back  from  the  white  forehead  his  glossy 
hair,  taking  her  o\*n  round  comb  to  subdue  an  obdurate 
lock,  while  he  was  sure  that  the  fingers  made  more  than 
one  pilgrimage  to  the  lips  as  the  little  barber  found  mois» 
ture  necessary  to  her  task. 


28  DARKNESS   AND  DAYLIGHT. 

"  There,  Mr.  Blindman,  you  look  real  nice,"  she  said, 
with  an  immense  amount  of  satisfaction,  as  she  stepped 
back,  the  better  to  inspect  the  whole  eifect.  "  I'll  bet 
you'll  wonder  who's  been  here  when  you  wake  up,  but  1 
shan't  teU  you  now.  Maybe,  though,  I'll  come  again  to- 
morrow," and  placing  the  bouquet  in  his  hands,  she  ran 
away. 

Pausing  for  a  moment,  and  looking  back,  she  saw 
Richard  again  raise  to  his  lips  her  bouquet,  and  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  as  she  thought,  "  what  if  he  wern't 
asleep  after  all ! "  she  ran  on  until  Brier  Hill  was  reached. 

"  Not  any  message  this  time  either  ?  "  said  Grace,  when 
told  that  he  had  kissed  her  flowers-  *^nd  that  was  all. 

Still  this  was  proof  that  he  was  pleased,  and  the  infatu- 
ated woman  persisted  in  preparing  bouquets,  which 
Edith  daily  carried  to  Collingwood,  going  always  at 
the  same  time,  and  finding  him  always  in  the  same  spot 
waiting  for  her.  As  yet  no  word  had  passed  between 
them,  for  Edith,  who  liked  the  novelty  of  the  affair,  was 
so  light-footed  that  she  generally  managed  to  slip  the 
bouquet  into  his  hand,  and  run  away  ere  he  had  time  to 
detain  her.  One  morning,  however,  near  the  middle  of 
October,  when,  owing  to  a  bruised  heel,  she  had  not  been 
to  see  him  for  more  than  a  week,  he  sat  in  his  accustomed 
place,  half-expecting  her,  and  still  thinking  how  improba- 
ble it  was  that  she  would  come.  He  had  become  strangely 
attached  to  the  little  unknown,  as  he  termed  her;  he 
thought  of  her  all  the  day  long,  and  when,  in  the  chilly 
evening,  he  sat  before  the  glowing  grate,  listening  to  the 
monotonous  whisperings  of  his  father,  he  wished  so  much 
that  she  was  there  beside  him.  His  life  would  not  be  so 
dreary  then,  for  in  the  society  of  that  active,  playful 
child,  he  should  forget,  in  part,  how  miserable  he  was. 
She  was  blue-eyed,  and  golden-haired,  he  thought,  with 
soft,  abundant  curls  veiling  her  sweet  young  face ;  and 
he  pictured  to  himself  just  how  she  would  JOOK,  Hitting 


BICHAED    AND   EDITH.  29 

tb rough  the  halls,  and  dancing  upon  the  gieen  sward  neai 
the  door. 

"But  it  cannot  be,"  he  murmured  on  that  Octobei 
morning,  when  he  sat  alone  in  his  wretchedness.  "  Noth- 
*ng  I've  wished  for  most  has  ever  come  to  pass.  Sorrow 
nns  been  my  birthright  from  a  boy.  A  curse  is  resting 
upon  our  household,  and  all  are  doomed  who  come  with- 
in its  shadow.  First  my  own  mother  died  just  when  I 
needed  her  the  most,  then  that  girlish  woman  whom  I 
also  called  my  mother;  then,  our  darling  Charlie.  My 
father's  reason  followed  next,  while  I  am  hopelessly  blind. 
Oh,  sometimes  I  wish  that  I  could  die." 

u  Hold  your  breath  with  all  your  might,  and  see  if  yon 
can't,"  said  the  voice  of  Edith  Hastings,  who  had  ap- 
proached him  cautiously,  and  heard  his  sad  soliloquy. 

Richard  started,  and  stretching  out  his  long  arm,  caught 
the  sleeve  of  the  little  girl,  who,  finding  herself  a  captive, 
ceased  to  struggle,  and  seated  herself  beside  him  as  he 
requested  her  to  do. 

"Be  you  holding  your  breath?"  she  asked,  as  for  a 
moment  he  did  not  speak,  adding  as  he  made  no  answer 
"  Tell  me  when  you're  dead,  won't  you  ?  " 

Richard  laitghed  aloud,  a  hearty,  merry  laugh,  which 
startled  himself,  it  was  so  like  an  echo  of  the  past,  ere  his 
hopes  were  crushed  by  cruel  misfortune. 

"I  do  not  care  to  die  now  that  I  have  you,"  he  said; 
"  and  if  you'd  stay  with  me  always,  I  should  never  be 
unhappy." 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  that  be  jolly,"  cried  Edith,  using  her 
favorite  expression,  "  I'd  read  to  you,  and  sing  to  you, 
only  Rachel  says  my  songs  are  weird-like,  and  queer,  and 
maybe  you  might  not  like  them ;  but  I'd  fix  your  hair, 
and  lead  you  in  the  smooth  places  where  you  wouldn't 
jam  your  heels;"  and  she  glanced  ruefully  at  one  of  heis, 
bound  up  in  a  cotton  rag.  "  I  wish  I  could  come,  but 
Mrs.  Atherton  won't  let  me,  I  know.  She  threatens  most 


SO  DARKNESS    A2TD    DAYLIGHT. 

every  day  to  send  me  back  to  the  Asylum,  'cause  I  act  BO 
Tin  her  little  waiting-maid,  Edith  Hastings." 

"  Waiting  maid  I "  and  the  tone  of  Richard's  voice  was 
indicative  of  keen  disappointment. 

The  Harringtons  were  very  proud,  and  Richard  would 
once  have  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  being  particularly  inter- 
ested in  on  3  so  far  below  him  as  a  waiting-maid.  ITe  had 
never  thought  of  this  as  a  possibility,  and  the  child  bt-*i<le 
him  was  not  of  quite  so  much  consequence  as  she  had 
been  before.  •  Still  he  would  know  something  of  her  his- 
tory, and  he  asked  her  where  she  lived,  and  why  she  had 
brought  him  so  many  flowers. 

"Hive  with  Mrs.  Atherton,"  she  replied.  "She  sent 
the  flowers,  and  if  you'll  never  tell  as  long  as  you  live 
and  breathe,  I'll  tell  you  what  Rachel  says.  Rachel's  an 
old  colored  woman,  who  used  to  be  a  nigger  down  South, 
but  she's  free  now,  and  says  Mrs.  Atherton  loves  you.  I 
guess  she  does,  for  she  fainted  most  away  that  day  I  went 
home  and  told  her  you  were  blind." 

"  Mrs.  Atherton ! "  and  Richard's  face  grew  suddenly 
dark.  "  Who  is  Mrs.  Atherton,  child  ?  " 

"Oh-h-h!"  laughed  Edith  deprecatingly ;  "don't  you 
know  her  ?  She 's  Grace  Atherton  —  the  biggest  lady  in 
town ;  sleeps  in  linen  sheets  and  pillow  cases  every  night, 
and  washes  in  a  bath-tub  every  morning." 

"Grace  Atherton!"  and  Edith  quailed  beneath  the 
fiery  glance  bent  upon  her  by  those  black  sightless  eyes. 
"  Did  Grace  Atherton  send  these  flowers  to  me  ? "  and 
the  bright-hued  blossoms  dropped  instantly  from  his 
hand. 

"Yes,  sir,  she  did.  What  makes  you  tear  so?  Aie 
you  in  a  tantrum?"  said  Edith,  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  began  unsteadily  to  pace  the  summer-house. 

Richard  Harrington  possessed  a  peculiar  temperament 
Grace  Atherton  had  wounded  his  pride,  spurned  his  love, 
and  he  thought  lie  hated  her,  deeming  it  a  most  unwo» 


BICHAKD    A.ND    EDIT1I.  81 

manly  act  in  her  to  make  these  overtures  for  a  reconeilia* 
tion.  This  was  why  he  tore  so,  as  Edith  had  expressed  it^ 
but  soon  growing  more  calm,  he  determined  to  concta] 
from  the  quick-witted  child  the  cause  of  his  agitation,  and 
resuming  his  seat  beside  her,  he  asked  her  many  questions 
concerning  Grace  Atherton  and  herself,  and  as  he  talked 
fce  felt  his  olden  interests  in  his  companion  gradually 
coming  back.  What  if  she  were  now  a  waiting-maid,  hei 
family  might  have  been  good,  and  he  asked  her  many 
things  of  her  early  life.  But  Edith  could  tell  him  nothing, 
The  Orphan  Asylum  was  the  first  home  of  which  she  had 
any  vivid  remembrance,  though  it  did  seem  to  her  she 
once  had  lived  where  the  purple  grapes  were  growing 
rich  and  ripe  upon  the  broad  vine  stalk,  and  where  all  the 
d-ay  long  there  was  music  such  as  she'd  never  heard  since, 
but  which  came  back  to  her  sometimes  in  dreams,  staying 
long  enough  for  her  to  catch  the  air.  Her  mother,  the  mat- 
ron told  her,  had  died  in  New  York,  and  she  was  brought 
to  the  Asylum  by  a  woman  who  would  keep  her  from 
starvation.  This  was  Edith's  story,  told  without  reserve 
or  the  slightest  suspicion  that  the  proud  man  beside  her 
would  think  the  less  of  her  because  she  had  been  poor 
and  hungry.  Neither  did  he,  after  the  first  shock  had 
worn  away ;  and  he  soon  found  himself  wishing  again  that 
she  would  come  up  there  and  live  with  him.  She  was  a 
strange,  odd  child,  he  knew,  and  he  wondered  how  she 
looked.  He  did  not  believe  she  was  golden-haired  and 
blue-eyed  now.  Still  he  would  not  ask  her  lest  he  should 
receive  a  second  disappointment,  for  he  was  a  passionate 
admirer  of  female  beauty,  and  he  could  not  repress  a  feel- 
.  ng  of  aversion  for  an  ugly  face. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Atherton  handsome  ?  "  he  suddenly  asked,  re< 
membering  the  fresh,  girlish  beauty  of  Grace  Elmendor^ 
Hud  wishing  to  know  if  it  had  faded. 

"  Oh,  jolly,"  said  Edith,  "  I  guess  she  is.  Such  splendid 
blue  ^iair  and  auburn  eyes." 


82  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  She  must  be  magnificent,"  returned  Richard,  scaicely 
repressing  a  smile.  "  Give  her  my  compliments  and  ash 
her  if  she's  willing  note  to  share  my  self-imposed  labor. 
JUind,  don't  you  forget  a  word,  and  go  now.  I'll  expect 
you  again  to-morrow  with  her  answer." 

He  made  a  gesture  for  Edith  to  leave,  and  though  she 
wanted  so  much  to  tell  him  how  she  loved  him  for  saving 
that  Swedish  baby,  she  forbore  until  another  time,  and 
ran  hastily  away,  repeating  his  message  as  she  ran  lest 
she  should  forget  it. 

"  Sent  his  compliments,  and  says  ask  you  if  you're  wil- 
ling to  share  his  —  his  —  his  —  share  his  —  now  —  some- 
thing —  anyway,  he  wants  you  to  come  up  there  and  live, 
and  I  do  so  hope  you'll  go.  Won't  it  be  jolly  ?  "  she  ex- 
claimed, as  half  out  of  breath  she  burst  into  the  room 
where  Grace  sat  reading  a  letter  received  by  the  morn- 
ing's mail. 

"Wants  me  to  what  ?  "  Grace  asked,  fancying  she  had 
not  heard  aright,  and  as  Edith  repeated  the  message, 
there  stole  into  her  heart  a  warm,  happy  feeling,  such  as 
she  had  not  experienced  since  the  orange  wreath  crowned 
her  maiden  brow. 

Edith  had  not  told  her  exactly  what  he  said,  she  knew, 
but  it  was  sufficient  that  he  cared  to  see  her,  and  she  re- 
solved to  gratify  him,  but  with  something  of  her  olden 
coquetry  she  would  wait  awhile  and  make  him  think  she 
was  not  coming.  So  she  said  no  more  to  Edith  upon  the 
subject,  but  to  d  her  that  she  was  expecting  her  cousin 
Arthur  St.  Claire,  a  student  from  Geneva  College,  that  he 
would  be  there  in  a  day  or  two,  and  while  he  remained  at 
Brier  Hill  she  wished  Edith  to  try  and  behave  herself. 

u  This  Mr.  St.  Claire,"  said  she,  "  belongs  to  one  of  thu 
most  aristocratic  Southern  families.  He  is  not  accustcui- 
ed  to  anything  low,  either  in  speech  or  manner." 

u  Can't  I  even  say  jolly  f  "  asked  Edith,  with  such  a 
§enously  comical  manner  that  Grace  had  great  difficulty 
to  keep  from  smiling. 


VISITORS   AT   COLLIXGWOOD    AND   BE1ER    HILL  88 

"  Jolly  "  was  Edith's  pet  word,  the  one  she  used  indis- 
criminately and  on  all  occasions,  sometimes  as  an  inter- 
jection, but  oftener  as  an  adjective.  If  a  thing  suited  her 
»t  was  sure  to  be  jolly — she  always  insisting  that  'twas  a 
good  proper  word,  for  Marie  used  it  and  she  knew.  Who 
Matir  was  she  could  not  tell,  save  that  'twas  somebody 
nho  cnce  took  care  of  her  and  called  her  jolly.  It  was  in 
rain  that  Grace  expostulated,  telling  her  it  was  a  slang 
phnse  used  only  by  the  vulgar.  Edith  was  inexorable, 
and  would  not  even  promise  to  abstain  from  it  during  the 
visit  of  Arthur  St.  Claire. 


CHAPTER  V. 

VISITORS   AT   COLLEfGWOOD   AND  VISITORS  AT  BRIER  HILL. 

The  morning  came  at  last  on  which  Arthur  was  expect- 
ed, but  as  he  did  not  appear,  Grace  gave  him  up  until  the 
morrow,  and  toward  the  middle  of  tl*e  afternoon  ordered 
out  her  carriage,  and  drove  slowly  in  the  direction  of  Col- 
lingwood.  Alighting  before  the  broad  piazza,  and  ascend- 
ing the  marble  steps,  she  was  asked  by  Richard's  con- 
fidential servant  into  the  parlor,  where  she  sat  waiting 
anxiously  while  he  went  in  quest  of  his  master. 

"  A  lady,  sir,  wishes  to  see  you  in  the  parlor,"  and  Vic- 
tor Dupres  bowed  low  before  Richard,  awaiting  his  com- 
mands. 

« A  lady,  Victor  ?    Did  she  give  her  name ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  Atherton  —  Mrs.  Grace  Atherton,  an  old 
6 lend,  she  said,"  Victor  replied,  marveling  at  the  expres- 
sion of  his  master's  face,  which  indicated  anything  but 
pleasure. 

He  had  expected  her  —  had  rather  anticipated  her 
coming ;  but  now  that  sh  3  was  there,  he  shrank  from  the 
2* 


84  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

interview.  It  could  only  result  in  sorrow,  for  Grace  waa 
not  to  him  now  what  she  once  had  been.  He  could  value 
her,  perhaps,  as  a  friend,  but  Edith's  tale  had  told  him 
that  he  to  her  was  more  than  a  friend.  Possibly  this 
knowledge  was  not  as  distasteful  to  him  as  he  fancied  it 
to  be  ;  at  all  events,  when  he  remembered  it,  he  said  to 
Victor : 

"  Is  the  lady  handsome  ?  "  feeling  a  glow  of  satisfaction 
in  the  praises  heaped  upon  the  really  beautiful  Grace. 
Ere  long  the  hard  expression  left  his  face,  and  straighten- 
ing up  his  manly  form,  he  bade  Victor  take  him  to  her. 

As  they  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door,h«  struck  his 
foot  against  it,  and  instantly  there  rang  in  his  ear  the 
words  which  little  Edith  had  said  to  him  so  pityingly, 
"Poor  blind  man!"  while  he  felt  again  upon  his  brow  the 
touch  of  those  childish  fingers;  and  this  was  why  the 
dark,  hard  look  came  back.  Edith  Hastings  rose  up  be- 
tween him  and  the  regal  creature  waiting  so  anxiously  his 
coming,  and  who,  when  he  came  and  stood  before  her,  in 
his  helplessness,  wept  like  a  child. 

"  Richard !  oh,  Richard !  that  it  shouM  be  thus  we 
meet  again ! "  was  all  that  she  could  say,  as,  seizing  the 
groping  hand,  she  covered  it  with  her  tears. 

Victor  had  disappeared,  and  she  could  thus  give  free 
vent  to  her  emotions,  feeling  it  almost  a  relief  that  the 
eyes  whose  glance  she  once  had  loved  to  meet  could  not 
witness  her  grief. 

"  Grace,"  he  said  at  last,  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  so 
cold  that  she  involuntarily  dropped  his  hands  and  looked 
him  steadily  in  the  face.  "  Grace,  do  not  aggravate  my 
misfortune  by  expressing  too  mu  ,h  sympathy.  I  am  not 
a«  miserable  as  you  may  think,  indeed,  I  am  not  as  unhap- 
py even  now  as  yourself." 

"It's  true,  Richard,  true,"  she  replied,  "and  because! 
am  unhappy  I  have  come  to  ask  your  forgi  veness  if  ever 
word  or  action,  or  taunt  of  mine  caused  you  a  moment'i 


VISITORS    AT    COLLINGWOOD    AND    BEEEB    HILL.  SJfl 

pain.  I  have  suffered  much  since  we  parted,  and  my  su£ 
fering  has  atoned  for  all  my  sin." 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  softened  by  memories  of  tho 
past,  when  he  loved  Grace  Elmendorf,  Richard  reached 
for  her  hand,  and  holding  it  between  his  own,  said  to  hei 
gently,  "  Grace,  I  forgave  you  years  ago.  I  know  you 
have  suffered  much,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  we  will  un- 
derstand each  other  now.  You  are  the  widow  of  the  man 
you  chose,  I  am  hopelessly  blind —  our  possessions  adjoin 
each  other,  our  houses  are  in  sight.  I  want  you  for  a 
neighbor,  a  friend,  a  sister,  if  you  like.  I  shall  never  mar- 
ry. That  time  is  past.  It  perished  with  the  long  ago,  and 
it  will,  perhaps,  relieve  the  monotony  of  my  life  if  I  have 
a  female  acquaintance  to  visit  occasionally.  I  thank  you 
much  for  your  flowers,  although  for  a  time  I  did  not  know 
you  sent  them,  for  the  little  girl  would  place  them  in  my 
hands  without  a  word  and  dart  away  before  I  could  stop 
her.  Still  I  knew  it  was  a  child,  and  I  preserved  them 
carefully  for  her  sake  until  she  was  last  here,  when  I 
learned  who  was  the  real  donor.  I  am  fond  of  flowers 
and  thank  you  for  sending  them.  I  appreciate  your  kind- 
ness. I  like  you  much  better  than  I  did  an  hour  since, 
for  the  sound  of  your  voice  and  the  touch  of  your  hands 
seem  to  me  like  old  familiar  friends.  I  am  glad  you  came 
to  see  me,  Grace.  I  wish  you  to  come  often,  for  I  ain 
very  lonely  here.  We  will  at  least  be  friends,  but  noth- 
ing more.  Do  you  consent  to  my  terms  ?  " 

She  had  no  alternative  but  to  consent,  and  bowing  her 
head,  she  answered  back,  "  Yes,  Richard ;  that  is  all  I 
can  expect,  all  I  wish.  I  had  no  other  intention  in  send- 
ing you  bouquets." 

He  knew  she  did  not  tell  him  truly,  but  he  pitied  her 
mortification,  and  tried  to  divert  her  mind  by  talking  upon 
indifferent  subjects,  but  Grace  was  too  much  chagrined 
and  disappointed  to  pay  much  heed  to  what  he  said,  and 
after  a  time  arose  to  go. 


86  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"Come  again  soon,"  he  said,  accompanying  her  to  th« 
door,  "  and  send  up  that  novelty  Edith,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Edith,"  muttered  Grace,  as  she  swept  haughtily  down 
the  box-lined  walk,  and  stepped  into  her  carriage.  "I'll 
send  her  back  to  the  Asylum,  as  I  live.  Why  didn't  she 
tell  me  just  how  it  was,  and  so  prevent  me  from  making 
myself  ridiculous  ?  " 

Grace  was  far  too  much  disturbed  to  go  home  at  once. 
She  should  do  or  say  something  unlady-like  if  she  did, 
and  she  bade  Tom  drive  her  round  the  village,  thus  un- 
consciously giving  the  offending  Edith  a  longer  time  in 
which  to  entertain  and  amuse  the  guest  at  Brier  Hill,  for 
Arthur  St.  Claire  had  come. 

Edith  was  the  first  to  spy  him  sauntering  slowly  up  the 
walk,  and  she  watched  him  curiously  as  he  came,  mimic- 
ing  his  gait,  and  wondering  if  he  didn't  feel  big. 

"  Nobody's  afraid  of  you,"  she  soliloquised,  M  if  you  do 
belong  to  the  firstest  family  in  Virginia."  Then,  hearing 
Rachel,  who  answered  his  ring,  bid  him  walk  into  the 
parlor  and  amuse  himself  till  Mrs.  Atherton  came,  she 
thought,  "  Wouldn't  it  be  jolly  to  go  down  and  entertain 
him  myself.  Let  me  see,  what  do^s  Mrs.  Atherton  say  to 
the  Shannondale  gentlemen  when  they  call?  Oh,  I  know, 
she  asks  them  if  they've  read  tt  e  last  new  novel ;  how 
they  liked  it,  and  so  on.  I  can  do  all  that,  and  maybe  he'll 
think  I'm  a  famous  scholar.  I  mean  to  wear  the  shawl  she 
looks  so  pretty  in,"  ana  going  to  her  mistress'  drawer,  the 
child  took  out  and  threw  around  her  shoulders  a  crimson 
scarf,  which  Grace  often  wore,  and  then  descended  to  the 
parlor,  where  Arthur  St.  Claire  stood,  leaning  againsl  the 
marble  mantel,  and  listlessly  examining  various  ornaments 
upon  it. 

At  the  first  sight  of  him  Edith  felt  her  courage  forsak- 
ing her,  there  seemed  so  wide  a  gulf  between  herself  and 
the  haughty-looking  stranger,  and  she  was  about  to  leave 
the  raom  when  he  called  after  her,  bidding  her  stay,  and 
a»Vmg  who  she  wag. 


VISITORS   AT   COLLETOWOOD   AUD  IEIEE   HILL.  37 

u  I'm  Edith  Hastings,"  she  answered,  dropping  into  a 
chair,  and  awkwardly  kicking  her  heels  against  the  rounds 
in  her  embarrassment  at  having  thdse  large,  quizzical 
brown  eyes  fixed  so  inquiringly  upon  her. 

He  was  a  tall,  handsome  young  man,  not  yet  nineteen 
years  of  age,  and  in  his  appearance  there  certainly  waa 
something  savoring  of  the  air  supposed  to  mark  the  F.  F. 
Vs.  His  manners  were  polished  in  the  extreme,  posses- 
sing, perhaps,  a  little  too  much  hauteur,  and  impressing 
the  beholder  with  the  idea  that  he  could,  if  he  chose,  be 
very  cold  and  overbearing.  His  forehead,  high  and  intel- 
lectually formed,  was  shaded  by  curls  of  soft  brown  hair, 
while  about  his  mouth  there  lurked  a  mischievous  smile, 
somewhat  at  variance  with  the  proud  curve  of  his  upper 
lip,  where  an  incipient  mustache  was  starting  into  life. 
Such  was  Arthur  St.  Claire,  as  he  stood  coolly  inspecting" 
Edith  Hastings,  who  mentally  styling  him  the  "  hateful- 
lest  upstart "  she  ever  saw,  gave  him  back  a  glance  as 
cool  and  curious  as  his  own. 

"  You  are  an  odd  little  thing,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  No  I  ain't  neither,"  returned  Edith,  the  tears  starting 
in  her  flashing  black  eyes. 

"Spunky,"  was  the  young  man's  next  remark,  as  he 
advanced  a  step  or  two  toward  her.  "But  don't  let's 
quarrel,  little  lady.  You've  come  down  to  entertain  me, 
I  dare  say ;  and  now  tell  me  who  you  are." 

His  manner  at  once  disarmed  the  impulsive  Edith  of 
all  prejudice,  and  she  replied : 

"I  told  you  I  was  Edith  Hastings,  Mrs.  Atherton's 
waiting  maid." 

"  Waiting  maid ! "  and  Arthur  St.  Claire  took  a  step  or 
two  backwards  as  he  said:  "Why  are  you  in  here?  This 
is  not  your  place." 

Edith  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  could  not  misunderstand 
the  feeling  with  which  he  regarded  her,  and  with  an  air 
of  insulted  dignity  worthy  of  Graze  herself,  she  exclaimed, 


38  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

u  Oh,  how  I  hate  you,  Arthur  St.  Claire !  At  first  I 
thought  you  might  be  good,  like  Squire  Harrington ;  but 
you  ain't.  I  can't  bear  you.  Ugh ! " 

"  'Squire  Harrington  ?  Does  he  live  near  here  ?  "  and 
the  fa«e  which  at  the  sight  of  her  anger  had  dimpled  all 
over  with  smiles,  turned  white  as  Arthur  St.  Claire  asked 
this  question,  to  which  Edith  replied  : 

"  Yes ;  he's  blind,  and  he  lives  up  at  Collingwood. 
Yen  can  see  its  tower  now,"  and  she  pointed  across  the 
fields. 

But  Arthur  did  not  heed  her,  and  continued  to  ply  her 
with  questions  concerning  Mr.  Harrington,  asking  if  he 
had  formerly  lived  near  Geneva,  in  western  New  York,  if 
he  had  a  crazy  father,  and  if  he  ever  came  to  Brier  Hill. 

Edith's  negative  answer  to  this  last  query  seemed  to 
satisfy  him,  and  when,  mistaking  his  eagerness  for  a  desire 
to  see  her  divinity,  Edith  patronizingly  informed  him  that 
he  might  go  with  her  some  time  to  Collingwood,  he  an- 
swered her  evasively,  asking  if  Richard  recognized  voices, 
as  most  blind  people  did. 

Edith  could  not  tell,  but  she  presumed  he  did,  for  he 
was  the  smartest  man  that  ever  lived ;  and  in  her  enthusi- 
astic praises  she  waxed  so  eloquent,  using,  withal,  so  good 
language,  that  Arthur  forgot  she  was  a  waiting  maid,  and 
insensibly  began  to  entertain  a  feeling  of  respect  for  the 
sprightly  child,  whose  dark  face  sparkled  and  flashed  with 
her  excitement.  She  was  a  curious  specimen,  he  acknowl- 
edged, and  he  began  adroitly  to  sound  the  depths  of  her 
intellect.  Edith  took  the  cue  at  once,  and  not  wishing  to 
oe  in  the  background,  asked  him,  as  she  had  at  first  in- 
Scuded  doing,  if  he'd  read  the  last  new  novel. 

Without  in  the  least  comprehending  what  novel  she 
meant,  Arthur  promptly  replied  that  he  had. 

"How  did  you  like  it?"  she  continued,  adjusting  her 
crimson  scarf  as  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Athertou  do  uudei 
similar  circumstances. 


VISITORS   AT   COLLET GWOOD   AND   BRIEE   HILL.  39 

"Very  much  indeed,"  returned  the  young  man  with 
Imperturbable  gravity,  but  when  with  a  toss  of  her  head 
she  asked :  "  Didn't  you  think  there  was  too  much  'phys- 
ics in  it  ?  "  he  went  off  into  peals  of  laughter  so  loud  and 
long  that  they  brought  old  Rachel  to  the  door  to  see  if 
**  he  was  done  gone  crazy  or  what." 

Taking  advantage  of  her  presence,  the  crest-fallen 
Edith  crept  disconsolately  up  the  stairs,  feeling  that  she 
had  made  a  most  ridiculous  mistake,  and  wondering  what 
the  word  could  be  that  sounded  so  much  like  'physics, 
and  yet  wasn't  that  at  all.  She  knew  she  had  made  her- 
self ridiculous,  and  was  indulging  in  a  fit  of  crying  when 
Mrs.  Atherton  returned,  delighted  to  meet  her  young 
cousin,  in  whom  she  felt  a  pardonable  pride. 

"  You  must  have  been  very  lonely,"  she  said,  beginning 
to  apologize  for  her  absence. 

"  Never  was  less  so  in  my  life,"  he  replied.  "  Why, 
I've  been  splendidly  entertained  by  a  little  black  princess, 
who  called  herself  your  waiting  maid,  and  discoursed 
most  eloquently  of  metaphysics  and  all  that." 

"  Edith,  of  course,"  said  Grace.  "  It's  just  like  her. 
Imitated  me  in  every  thing,  I  dare  say." 

a  Rather  excelled  you,  I  think,  in  putting  on  the  fino 
lady,"  returned  the  teasing  Arthur,  who  saw  at  once  that 
Edith  Hastings  was  his  fair  cousin's  sensitive  point. 

"What  else  did  she  say?"  asked  Grace,  but  Arthur 
generously  refrained  from  repeating  the  particulars  of  his 
interview  with  the  little  girl  who,  as  the  days  went  by, 
interested  him  so  much  that  he  forgot  his  Virginia  pride, 
and  greatly  to  Mrs.  Atherton's  surprise  indulged  with  her 
in  more  than  one  playful  romp,  teasingly  calling  her  hia 
Jit  tie  "  Metaphysics,"  and  asking  if  she  hated  him  still. 

She  did  not.  Next  to  Richard  and  Marie,  she  liked  him 
better  than  any  one  she  had  ever  seen,  and  she  was  enjoy* 
ing  his  society  so  much  when  a  most  unlucky  occurrence 
suddenly  brought  her  happiness  to  an  end,  and  afforded 


40  DARKNESS   AND    DAYLIGHT. 

Grace  an  excuse  for  doing  what  she  had  latterly  frequently 
desired  to  do,  viz.  that  of  sending  the  little  girl  back 
to  the  Asylum  from  which  she  had  taken  her. 

Owing  to  the  indisposition  of  the  chambermaid,  Edith 
was  one  day  sent  with  water  to  Mr.  St.  Claire's  room. 
Arthur  was  absent,  but  on  the  table  his  writing  desk  lay 
open,  and  Edith's  inquisitive  eyes  were  not  long  in  spying 
a  handsome  golden  locket,  left  there  evidently  by  mistake. 
Two  or  three  times  she  had  detected  him  looking  at  this 
picture,  and  with  an  eager  curiosity  to  see  it  also,  she  took 
the  locket  in  her  hand,  and  going  to  the  window,  touched 
the  spring. 

It  was  a  wondrously  beautiful  face  which  met  her  view 
—  the  face  of  a  young  girl,  whose  golden  curls  rippling 
softly  over  her  white  shoulders,  and  whose  eyes  of  lus- 
trous blue,  reminded  Edith  of  the  angels  about  which 
Rachel  sang  so  devoutly  every  Sunday.  To  Edith  there 
was  about  that  face  a  nameless  but  mighty  fascination,  a 
something  which  made  her  warm  blood  chill  and  tingle 
in  her  veins,  while  there  crept  over  her  a  second  time  dim 
visions  of  something  far  back  in  the  past  —  of  purple  fruit 
on  vine-clad  hills  —  of  music  soft  and  low  —  of  days  and 
nights  on  some  tossing,  moving  object  —  and  then  of  a 
huge  white  building,  embowered  in  tall  green  trees,  whose 
milk-white  blossoms  she  gathered  in  her  hand ;  while  dis- 
tinct from  all  the  rest  was  this  face,  on  which  she  gazed 
so  earnestly.  It  is  true  that  all  these  thoughts  were  not 
clear  to  her  mind ;  it  was  rather  a  confused  mixture  of 
ideas,  one  of  which  faded  ere  another  came,  so  that  there 
seemed  no  real  connection  between  them;  and  had  she 
embodied  them  in  words,  they  would  have  been  recog- 
nized as  the  idle  fancies  of  a  strange,  old-fashioned  child. 
But  the  picture  —  there  was  something  in  it  which  held 
Edith  motionless,  while  her  tongue  seemed  struggling  to 
articulate  a  name,  but  failed  in  the  attempt ;  and  when, 
at  last,  her  lips  did  move,  they  uttered  the  word 


VISITORS   AT   COLLINGWOOD   AND   BBIEE   HILL.  41 

as  if  she,  too,  were  associated  with  that  sweet  young  face 

"Oh,  but  she's  jolly,"  Edith  said.  "I  don't  wonder 
Mr.  Arthur  loves  her,"  and  she  felt  her  own  heart  throb 
with  a  strange  affection  for  the  beautiful  original  of  that 
daguerreotype. 

In  the  hall  without  there  was  the  sound  of  a  footstep, 
f  I  was  coming  to  that  room.  It  was  Grace  herself  Edith 
tbought;  and  knowing  she  would  be  censured  for  touching 
what  did  not  belong  to  her,  she  thrust  the  locket  into  her 
bosom,  intending  to  return  it  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
springing  out  upon  the  piazza,  scampered  away,  leaving 
the  water  pail  to  betray  her  recent  presence. 

It  was  not  Grace,  as  she  had  supposed,  but  Arthur  St. 
Claire  himself,  come  to  put  away  the  locket,  which  he 
suddenly  remembered  to  have  left  upon  the  table.  Great 
was  his  consternation  when  he  found  it  gone,  and  that  no 
amount  of  searching  could  bring  it  to  light.  He  did  not 
notice  the  empty  pail  the  luckless  Edith  had  left,  although 
he  stumbled  over  it  twice  in  his  feverish  an  xiety  to  find 
his  treasure.  But  what  he  failed  to  observe  was  discov- 
ered by  Grace,  whom  he  summoned  to  his  aid,  and  who 
exclaimed : 

<*  Edith  Hastings  has  been  here  I  She  must  be  the 
thief!" 

"  Edith,  Grace,  Edith  —  it  cannot  be,"  and  Arthur's  face 
indicated  plainly  the  pain  it  would  occasion  him  to  find 
that  it  was  so. 

"  I  hope  you  may  be  right,  Arthur,  but  I  have  not  so 
much  confidence  in  her  as  you  seem  to  have.  There  she 
is  now  "  continued  Grace,  spying  her  across  the  yard  and 
Dulling  \Q  her  to  come. 

Blusni)ig,  stammering,  and  cowering  like  a  guilty  thing, 
LJith  entered  the  room,  for  she  heard  Arthur's  voice  and 
knew  that  h  }  was  there  to  witness  her  humiliation. 

**  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Atherton,  sternly,  "  what  have  y oq 
been  doing  ?  " 


42  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

No  ans^  <r  from  Edith  save  an  increase  of  color  upon 
her  face,  and  with  her  suspicions  confirmed,  Grace  went 
on, 

"  What  have  you  in  your  pocket  ?  " 

"'Taint  in  my  pocket;  it's  in  my  bosom,"  answered 
Edith,  drawing  it  forth  and  holding  it  to  view. 

"How  dare  you  steal  it,"  asked  Grace,  and  instantly 
tl.ere  came  into  Edith's  eyes  the  same  fiery,  savage  gleam 
from  which  Mrs.  Atherton  always  shrank,  and  beneath 
whiob  she  now  involuntarily  quailed. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Edith  that  she  could  be  accused 
of  theft,  and  she  stamped  at  first  like  a  little  fury,  then 
throwing  herself  upon  the  sofa,  sobbed  out,  "Oh,  dear  — 
oh,  dear,  I  wish  God  would  let  me  die.  I  don't  want  to 
live  any  longer  in  such  a  mean,  nasty  world.  I  want  to 
go  to  Heaven,  where  everything  is  jolly." 

"  You  are  a  fit  subject  for  Heaven,"  said  Mrs.  Ather- 
ton, scornfully,  and  instantly  the  passionate  sobbing  ceas- 
ed ;  the  tears  were  dried  in  the  eyes  which  blazed  with  in- 
sulted dignity  as  Edith  arose,  and  looking  her  mistress 
steadily  in  the  face,  replied, 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  meant  to  steal  and  keep  the 
pretty  picture,  but  the  one  who  was  in  here  with  me  knows 
I  didn't." 

"  Who  was  that  ?  "  interrupted  Grace,  her  color  chang- 
ing visibly  at  the  child's  reverent  reply. 

"  God  was  with  me,  and  I  wish  he  hadn't  let  me  touch 
it,  -but  he  did.  It  lay  on  the  writing  desk  and  I  took  it  to 
the  window  to  see  it.  Oh,  isn't  she  jolly?"  and  as  she  re- 
called the  beautiful  features,  the  hard  expression  left  her 
own,  and  she  went  on,  "I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  from  her; 
they  ^vould  stay  there, 'and  I  was  almost  going  to  speak 
her  name,  when  I  heard  you  coming,  and  ran  away.  I 
meant  to  bring  it  back,  Mr.  Arthur,"  and  she  turned  np- 
pealingly  to  him.  "I  certainly  did,  and  you  believe  me 
don't  you  ?  J  never  told  a  lie  in  my  life." 


VISITORS    AT   COLLINGWOOD    AND   BEIEE    HILL.  48 

Ere  Arthur  could  reply,  Grace  chimed  in. 

"Believe  you?  Of  comae  hot.  You  stole  the  picture 
and  intended  to  keep  it.  I  cannot  have  you  knger  in  my 
family,  for  nothing  is  safe.  I  shall  send  you  back  at  onco." 

There  was  a  look  in  the  large  eyes  which  turned  sc 
hopelessly  from  Arthur  to  Grace,  and  from  Grace  back 
to  Arthur,  like  that  the  hunted  deer  wears  when  hotly 
pursued  in  the  chase.  The  white  lips  moved  but  uttered 
no  sound,  and  the  fingers  closed  convulsively  around  the 
golden  locket  which  Arthur  advanced  to  take  away. 

"  Let  me  see  her  once  more,"  she  said. 

He  could  not  refuse  her  request,  and  touching  the  spring 
he  held  it  up  before  her. 

"  Pretty  lady,"  she  whispered,  «  sweet  lady,  whose  name 
I  most  know,  speak,  and  tell  Mr.  Arthur  that  I  didn't  do 
it.  I  surely  didn't." 

This  constant  appeal  to  Arthur,  and  total  disregard  of 
herself,  did  not  increase  Mrs.  Atherton's  amiability,  and 
taking  Edith  by  the  shoulder  she  attempted  to  lead  her 
from- the  room. 

At  the  door  Edith  stopped,  and  said  imploringly  to 
Arthur, 

"  Do  you  think  I  stole  it  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  a  movement  unobserved  by  Grace, 
but  fraught  with  so  much  happiness  for  the  little  girl. 
She  did  not  heed  Grace's  reproaches  now,  nor  care  if  she 
was  banished  to  her  own  room  for  the  remainder  of  the 
day.  Arthur  believed  her  innocent ;  Uncle  Tom  believed 
her  innocent,  and  Rachel  believed  her  innocent,  which  last 
fact  was  proved  by  the  generous  piece  of  custard  pie  hoist- 
ed to  her  window  in  a  small  tin  pail,  said  pail  being  poised 
upon  the  prongs  of  a  long  pitch-fork.  This  act  of  though  t- 
ful  kindness  touched  a  tender  chord  in  Edith's  heart,  and 
the  pie  choked  her  badly,  but  she  managed  to  eat  it  all 
save  the  crust,  which  she  tossed  into  the  grass,  laughing  to 
sec  how  near  it  came  to  hitting  Mrs.  Atherton,  who  looked 
around  to  discover  whence  it  could  possibly  have  come. 


44  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

That  night,  just  before  dark,  Grace  entered  Edith's 
room,  and  told  her  that  as  Mr.  St.  Claire,  who  left  them 
on  the  morrow,  had  business  in  New  York,  and  was  going 
directly  there,  she  had  decided  to  send  her  with  him  to  the 
Asylum.  "He  will  take  a  letter  from  me,"  she  continued, 
"telling  them  Avhy  you  are  sent  back,  and  I  greatly  foar 
it  will  be  long  ere  you  find  as  good  a  home  as  this  has 
been  to  you." 

Edith  sat  like  one  stunned  by  a  heavy  blow.  She  hac« 
not  really  believed  that  a  calamity  she  so  much  dreaded, 
would  overtake  her,  and  the  fact  that  it  had,  paralyzed  her 
faculties.  Thinking  her  in  a  fit  of  stubbornness  Mrs.  Ath- 
erton  said  no  more,  but  busied  herself  in  packing  her 
scanty  wardrobe,  feeling  occasionally  a  twinge  of  remorse 
as  she  bent  over  the  little  red,  foreign-looking  chest,  or 
glanced  at  the  slight  figure  sitting  so  motionless  by  the 
window. 

"  Whose  is  this  ?  "  she  asked,  holding  up  a  box  contain- 
ing a  long,  thick  braid  of  hair. 

"Mother's  hair!  mother's  hair!  for  Marie  told  me  so 
You  shan't  touch  that  I"  and  like  a  tigress  Edith  sprang 
upon  her,  and  catching  the  blue-black  tress,  kissed  it  pas- 
sionately, exclaiming,  "  'Tis  mother's  — 'tis.  I  remember 
now,  and  I  could  not  think  before,  but  Marie  told  me  so 
the  last  time  I  saw  her,  years  and  years  ago.  Oh,  mother, 
if  I  ever  had  a  mother,  where  are  you  to-night,  when  I 
want  you  so  much  ?  " 

She  threw  herself  upon  her  humble  bed,  not  thinking 
of  Grace,  nor  yet  of  the  Asylum,  but  revelling  in  her  new- 
born joy.  Suddenly,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  an  incident 
of  the  past  had  come  back  to  her  bewildered  mind,  and 
she  knew  now  whose  was  the  beautiful  braid  she  liud 
treasured  so  carefully.  Long  ago — oh,  how  long  it 
seemed  to  her  —  there  had  come  to  the  Asylum  a  short, 
dumpy  woman,  with  a  merry  face,  who  brought  her  thia 
hair  in  a  box,  telling  her  it  was  her  mother's,  and  also  that 


VISITORS   AT   COLLINGWOOD    AKD   BRIER   TTTT.r,.  45 

ehe  was  going  to  a  far  country,  but  should  return  again 
sometime  —  and  this  woman  was  Marie,  who  haunted  hei 
dreams  so  often,  whispering  to  her  of  magnolias  and  cape- 
jessamines.  All  this  Edith  remembered  distinctly,  and 
while  thinking  of  it  she  fell  asleep,  nor  woke  to  conscious- 
ness even  when  Rachel's  kind  old  hands  undressed  her 
carefully  and  tucked  her  up  in  bed,  saying  over  her  a 
prayer,  and  asking  that  Miss  Grace's  heart  might  relent 
and  keep  the  little  girl.  It  had  not  relented  when  morn- 
ing came,  and  still,  when  at  breakfast,  Arthur  received  a 
letter,  which  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  go  to  New  Yoik 
by  way  of  Albany,  she  did  suggest  that  it  might  be  too 
much  trouble  to  have  the  care  of  Edith. 

u  Not  at  all,"  he  said ;  and  half  an  hour  later  Edith 
was  called  into  the  parlor,  and  told  to  get  herself  in  readi- 
ness for  the  journey. 

"Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't,"  cried  Edith,  clinging  to  Mrs. 
Atherton's  skirt,  and  begging  of  her  not  to  send  her  back. 

"  "Where  will  you  go  ? "  asked  Grace.  "  I  don't  want 
you  here." 

"I  don't  know,"  sobbed  Edith,  uttering  the  next  instant 
a,  scream  of  joy,  as  she  saw,  in  the  distance,  the  carnage 
from  Collingwood,  and  knew  that  Richard  was  in  it. 
"  To  him!  to  him !  "  -she  exclaimed,  throwing  up  her  arms. 
u  Let  me  go  to  Mr.  Harrington  !  He  wants  me,  I  know." 

"  Are  you  faint  ?  "  asked  Grace,  as  she  saw  the  sudden 
paling  of  Arthur's  lips. 

"  Slightly,"  he  answered,  taking  her  offered  salts,  and 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  carriage  until  it  passed 
slowly  by.  "  I'm  better  now,"  he  said,  returning  the  salts, 
and  asking  why  Edith  could  not  go  to  Collingwood. 

Grace  would  rather  she  should  go  anywhere  else,  but 
ghe  did  not  say  so  to  Arthur.  She  merely  replied  that 
Edith  was  conceited  enough  to  think  Mr.  Harrington 
pleased  with  her  just  because  he  had  sometimes  talked  to 
her  when  she  carried  him  flowers. 


46  DAKKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  But  of  course  lie  don't  care  for  her,"  she  said.  "  AVhat 
could  a  blind  man  do  wilh  a  child  like  her?  Besides, 
after  what  has  occurred,  I  could  not  conscientiously  give 
her  a  good  name." 

Arthur  involuntarily  gave  an  incredulous  whistle,  which 
spoke  volumes  of  comfort  to  the  little  girl  weeping  so 
passionately  by  the  window,  and  watching  with  longing 
eyes  the  Collingwood  carriage  now  passing  from  her  view. 

"  We  must  go  or  be  left,"  said  Arthur,  approaching  her 
gently,  and  whispering  to  her  not  to  cry. 

w  Good  bye,  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Atherton,  putting  out 
her  jewelled  hand;  but  Edith  would  not  touch  it,  and  in 
a  tone  of  voice  which  sank  deep  into  the  proud  woman's 
heart,  she  answered : 

"  You'll  be  sorry  for  this  some  time." 

Old  Rachel  was  in  great  distress,  for  Edith  was  her  pet ; 
and  winding  her  black  arms  about  her  neck,  she  wept 
over  her  a  simple,  heartfelt  blessing,  and  then,  as  the  car- 
riage drove  from  the  gate,  ran  back  to  her  neglected 
churning,  venting  her  feelings  upon  the  dasher,  which 
she  set  down  so  vigorously  that  the  rich  cream  flew  in 
every  direction,  bespattering  the  wall,  the  window,  the 
floor,  the  stove,  and  settling  in  large  white  flakes  upon 
her  tawny  skin  and  tall  blue  turban. 

Passing  through  the  kitchen,  Grace  saw  it  all,  but  offer- 
ed no  remonstrance,  for  she  knew  what  had  prompted 
movements  so  energetic  on  the  part  of  odd  old  Rachel. 
She,  too,  was  troubled,  and  all  that  day  she  was  conscious 
of  a  feeling  of  remorse  which  kept  whispering  to  her  of 
a  great  wrong  done  the  little  girl  whose  farewell  words 
were  ringing  in  her  ear :  "  You'll  be  sorry  for  this  some 
time." 


ABTHUK   AND   E.DITH.  41 

CHAPTER  VL 

ABTHTTB   A2O)   EDITH. 

If  anything  could  have  reconciled  Edith  to  her  fate,  it 
would  have  been  the  fact  that  she  was  travelling  with 
Arthur  St.  Claire,  who,  after  entering  the  cars,  cared  lor 
her  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had  been  a  lady  of  his  own  rank 
instead  of  a  little  disgraced  waiting  maid,  whom  he  was 
taking  back  to  the  Asylum.  It  was  preposterous,  he 
thought,  for  Grace  to  call  one  as  young  as  Edith  a  waiting 
maid,  but  it  was  like  her,  he  knew.  It  had  a  lofty  sound, 
and  would  impress  some  people  with  a  sense  of  her  great- 
ness ;  so  he  could  excuse  it  much  more  readily  than  the 
injustice  done  to  the  child  by  charging  her  with  a  crime 
of  which  he  knew  she  was  innocent.  This  it  was,  perhaps, 
which  made  him  so  kind  to  her,  seeking  to  divert  her 
mind  from  her  grief  by  asking  her  many  questions  con- 
cerning herself  and  her  family.  But  Edith  did  not  care 
to  talk.  All  the  way  to  Albany  she  continued  crying; 
and  when,  at  last,  they  stood  within  the  noisy  depot) 
Arthur  saw  that  the  tears  were  still  rolling  down  her 
cheeks  like  rain. 

"  Poor  little  girl  How  I  pity  her ! "  he  thought,  as  she 
placed  her  hand  confidingly  in  his,  and  when  he  saw  how 
hopelessly  she  looked  into  his  face,  as  she  asked,  with 
quivering  lip,  if  "  it  wasn't  ever  so  far  to  New  York  yet  ?  " 
the  resolution  he  had  been  trying  all  the  day  to  make  was 
fully  decided  upon,  and  when  alone  with  Edith  in  the 
room  appropriated  to  her  at  the  Delavan  House,  he  asked 
her  why  she  supposed  Richard  Harrington  would  be  wil- 
ling to  take  her  to  Collingwood. 

Very  briefly  Edith  related  to  him  the  particulars  of  hei 
interviews  with  the  blind  man,  saying,  when  she  had  fin 
ished, 


48  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  Don't  you  believe  he  likes  me  ?  w 

"  I  dare  say  he  does,"  returned  Arthur,  at  the  same  time 
asking  *_T  she  would  be  afraid  to  stay  alone  one  night  in 
that  great  hotel,  knowing  he  was  gone  ?  " 

a  Oh,  Mr.  Arthur,  you  won't  leave  me  here  ? "  and  in 
hor  terror  Edith's  arms  wound  themselves  around  the 
young  man's  nock  as  if  she  would  thus  keep  him  there  by 
frrce. 

Unclasping  her  hands,  and  holding  them  in  his  own, 
Arthur  said, 

u  Listen  to  me,  Edith.  I  will  take  the  Boston  train 
which  leaves  here  very  soon,  and  return  to  Shannondale, 
reaching  there  some  time  to-night.  I  will  go  to  Colling- 
wood,  will  tell  Mr.  Harrington  what  has  happened,  and 
ask  him  to  take  you,  bringing  him  back  here  with  me,  if  he 
Will " 

"  And  if  he  won't  ?  "  interrupted  Edith,  joy  beaming  in 
every  feature.  u  If  he  won't  have  me,  Mr.  Arthur,  will 
you  ?  Say,  will  you  have  me  if  he  won't  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'll  have  you,"  returned  Arthur,  laughing  to 
himself,  as  he  thought  of  the  construction  which  might 
be  put  upon  this  mode  of  speech; 

But  a  child  nine  and  a  half  years  old  could  not,  he 
knew,  have  any  designs  upon  either  himself  or  Richard 
Harrington,  even  had  she  been  their  equal,  which  he  fan- 
cied she  was  not.  She  was  a  poor,  neglected  orphan,  and 
as  such  he  would  care  for  her,  though  the  caring  com- 
pelled him  to  do  what  scarcely  anything  else  could  have 
done,  to  wit,  to  seek  an  interview  with  the  man  who  held 
his  cherished  secret. 

"  Are  you  willing  to  stay  here  alone  now  ?  "  he  said 
jwain.  "I'L  order  your  meals  sent  to  your  room,  and  to- 
morrow nigut  I  shall  return." 

w  If  I  only  knew  you  meant  for  sure,"  said  Edith,  trem- 
bling at  the  thought  of  being  deserted  in  a  strange  city. 

Suddenly  she  started,  and  looking  him  earnestly  in  the 
fece,  said  to  him, 


ARTHUR   AND   EDITH,  49 

"Do  you  love  that  pretty  lady  in  the  glass  — the  on« 
Mrs.  Atlierton  thinks  I  stole  ?  " 

Arthur  turned  white  but  answered  her  at  once. 

"  Yes,  I  love  her  very,  very  much." 

«*  Is  she  your  sister,  Mr.  Arthur  ?  "  and  the  searching 
bliok  eyes  seemed  compelling  him  to  tell  the  truth. 

a  No,  not  my  sister,  but  a  dear  friend." 

«  Where  is  she,  Mr.  Arthur  ?    In  New  York?  " 

u  No,  not  in  New  York." 

"In  Albany  then?" 

**  No,  not  in  Albany.  She's  in  Europe  with  her  father," 
and  a  shade  of  sadness  crept  over  Arthur's  face.  "  She 
was  hardly  a  young  lady  when  this  picture  was  taken,  and 
he  drew  the  locket  from  its  hiding  place.  She  was  only 
thirteen.  She's  not  quite  sixteen  now." 

Edith  by  this  time  had  the  picture  in  her  hand,  and 
holding  it  to  the  light  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  but  she's  so  jolly, 
Mr.  Arthur.  May  I  kiss  her,  please  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered,  and  Edith's  warm  red  lips 
pressed  the  senseless  glass,  which  seemed  to  smile  upon 
her. 

M  Pretty  —  pretty  —  pretty  !N-n-n-JV?na  /  "  she  whisper- 
ed, and  in  an  instant  Arthur  clutched  her  so  tightly  that 
she  cried  out  with  pain. 

"Who  told  you  her  name  was  Nina?"  he  asked  in 
tones  so  stern  and  startling  that  Edith's  senses  all  forsook 
her,  and  trembling  with  fright  she  stammered, 

"  I  don't  know,  sir  —  unless  you  did.  Of  course  you 
did,  how  else  should  I  know.  I  never  saw  the  lady." 

Yes,  how  else  should  she  know,  and  though  he  would 
almost  have  sworn  that  name  had  never  passed  his  lipa 
save  in  solitude,  he  concluded  he  must  have  dropped  it 
inadvertently  in  Edith's  hearing,  and  still  holding  her  by 
the  arm,  he  said,  "  Edith,  if  I  supposed  you  would  repeat 
the  word  Niia,  either  at  Collingwood  or  elsewhere,  I  cer- 
tainly should  be  tempted  to  leave  you  here  alone," 


50  DABKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

*  I  won't,  I  won't,  oh,  Mr.  Arthur,  I  surely  won't ! "  and 
Edith  clung  to  him  in  terror.  "  Fll  never  say  it — not 
even  to  Mr.  Harrington.  I'll  forget  it,  I  can  I  know." 

"  Not  to  Mr.  Harrington  of  all  others,"  thought  Arthur, 
but  he  would  not  put  himself  more  in  Edith's  power  than 
he  already  was,  and  feeling  that  he  must  trust  her  to  a 
oertain  extent,  he  continued,  "If  you  stay  at  Colling- 
wood,  I  may  sometime  bring  this  Nina  to  see  you,  but  un- 
til I  do  you  must  never  breathe  her  name  to  any  living 
being,  or  say  a  word  of  the  picture." 

"  But  Mr.  Harrington,"  interrupted  the  far-seeing  Edith, 
''  He'll  have  to  know  why  Mrs.  Atherton  sent  me  away. 

« I'll  attend  to  that,"  returned  Arthur.  "  I  shall  tell  him 
it  was  a  daguerreotype  of  a  lady  friend.  There's  nothing 
wrong  in  that,  is  there  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  noticed  the  per- 
plexed look  of  the  honest-hearted  Edith. 

"  No,"  she  answered  hesitatingly.  "  It  is  a  lady  friend, 
but  —  but ' —  seems  as  if  there  was  something  wrong  some- 
where. Oh,  Mr.  Arthur  —  "  and  she  grasped  his  hand  as 
firmly-  as  he  had  held  her  shoulder.  "  You  ain't  going  to 
hurt  pretty  Nina,  are  you  ?  You  never  will  do  her  any 
harm?" 

"  Heaven  forbid,"  answered  Arthur,  involuntarily  turn- 
ing away  from  the  truthful  eyes  of  the  dark-haired  maid- 
en pleading  with  him  not  to  harm  the  Nina  who,  over  the 
sea,  never  dreamed  of  the  scene  enacted  in  that  room  be- 
tween the  elegant  Arthur  St.  Claire  and  the  humble  Edith 
Hastings.  "Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  harm  her " 

He  said  it  twice,  and  then  asked  the  child  to  swear 
bolemnly  never  to  repeat  that  name  where  any  one  could 
hear. 

"I  won't  swear, '  she  said,  "but  I'll  promise  as  true  na 
I  live  and  breathe,  and  draw  the  breath  of  life,  and  that's 
a^  good  as  a  swear." 

Arthur  felt  that  it  was,  and  with  the  compact  thua 
sealed  between  them,  he  arose  to  go,  reaching  out  hii 
hand  for  the  picture, 


ARTHUR   AXD   EDITH.  51 

a  No,"  said  Edith,  "  I  want  her  for  company.  I  shan't 
be  lonesome  looking  in  her  eyes,  and  I  know  you  will 
come  back  if  I  keep  her." 

Arthur  understood  her  meaning,  and  answered  laugh- 
ingly, "Well,  keep  her  then,  as  a  token  that  I  will  sure« 
ly  return,"  and  pressing  a  kiss  upon  the  beautiful  picture 
he  left  the  room,  while  Edith  listened  with  a  beating 
heart,  until  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  had  died  away. 
Then  a  sense  of  dreariness  stole  over  her ;  the  tears  gath- 
ered in  her  eyes,  and  she  sought  by  a  one-sided  conversa- 
tion with  her  picture  to  drive  the  loneliness  away. 

"Pretty  Nina!  Sweet  Nina!  Jolly  Nina!"  she  kept 
repeating.  "  I  guess  I  used  to  see  you  in  Heaven,  before 
I  came  down  to  the  nasty  old  Asylum.  And  mother  was 
there,  too,  with  a  great  long  veil  of  hair,  which  came  be- 
low her  waist.  Where  was  it?"  .she  asked  herself  as 
Nina,  hei  mother  and  Marie  were  all  mingled  confusedly 
together  in  her  mind;  and  while  seeking  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery, the  darkness  deepened  in  the  room,  the  gas  lamps 
were  lighted  in  the  street,  and  with  a  fresh  shudder  of 
loneliness  Edith  crept  into  the  bed,  and  nestling  down 
among  her  pillows,  fell  asleep  with  Nina  pressed  lovingly 
to  her  bosom. 

At  a  comparatively  early  hour  next  morning,  the  door 
of  her  room,  which  had  been  left  unfastened,  was  opened, 
and  a  chambermaid  walked  in,  starting  with  surprise  at 
sight  of  Edith,  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  thick  black  hair  fall- 
ing over  her  shoulders,  and  her  large  eyes  fixed  inquir- 
ingly upon  her. 

"•  An,  sure,"  she  began,  "  is  it  a  child  like  you  staying 
here  alone  the  blessed  night  ?  Where's  yer  folks  ?  " 

"  I  hain't  no  folks,"  answered  Edith,  holding  fast  to  tho 
locket,  and  chewing  industriously  the  bit  of  gwn  which 
Rachel,  who  knew  her  taste,  had  slipped  into  her  pocket 
at  parting. 

w  Hain't  no  folks !  How  come  you  here  then  ?  "  and 
the  girl  Lois  advanced  nearer  to  the  bedside. 


52  DARKLESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  A  man  "brought  me,"  returned  Edith.  "  He's  gone  off 
now,  but  will  come  again  to-night." 

"Your  father,  most  likely,"  continued  the  loquacious 
Lois. 

"My  father!"  and  Edith  laughed  scornfully.  «Mf. 
Aithur  ain't  big  enough  to  be  anybody's  father  —  or  yes, 
maybe  he's  big  enough,  for  he's  awful  tall.  But  he's  got 
the  teentiest  whiskers  growing  you  ever  saw,"  and  Edith's 
nose  went  up  contemptuously  at  Arthur's  darling  mus- 
tache. "I  don't  believe  he's  twenty,"  she  continued, 
"  and  little  girl's  pa's  must  be  older  than  that  I  guess,  and 
have  bigger  whiskers." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  asked  Lois,  vastly  amused  at  the 
quaint  speeches  of  the  child,  who  replied,  with  great 
dignity, 

"  Going  on  ten,  and  in  three  years  more  Til  be  thirteen  !  " 

"Who  are  you,  any  way?"  asked  Lois,  her  manner 
jidicating  so  much  real  interest  that  Edith  repeated  her 
entire  history  up  to  the  present  time,  excepting,  indeed, 
the  part  pertaining  to  the  locket  held  so  vigilantly  in  her 
hand. 

She  had  taken  a  picture  belonging  to  Mr.  Aithur,  she 
said,  and  as  Lois  did  not  ask  what  picture,  she  was  spared 
any  embarrassment  upon  that  point. 

a  You're  a  mighty  queer  child,"  said  Lois,  when  the 
narrative  was  ended ;  "  but  I'll  see  that  you  have  good 
care  till  he  comes  back ; "  and  it  was  owing,  in  a  measure, 
to  her  influence,  that  the  breakfast  and  dinner  carried  up 
to  Edith  was  of  a  superior  quality,  and  comprised  in 
quantity  far  more  than  she  could  eat. 

Still  the  day  dragged  heavily,  for  Lois  could  not  give 
her  much  attention ;  and  even  Nina  failed  to  entertain 
her,  as  the  western  sunlight  came  in  at  her  window,  warn- 
ing her  that  it  was  almost  night. 

"  Will  Arthur  come  ?  or  if  he  does,  will  Mr.  Harring- 
ton be  with  him  ?  "  she  asked  herself  repeatedly,  until  a* 


BTCHARD   A1TD    ARTHUR.  53 

last,  worn  out  with  watching  and  waiting,  she  laid  he? 
head  upon  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  fell  asleep,  resting  so 
quietly  that  she  did  not  hear  the  rapid  step  in  the  hall, 
the  knock  upon  the  door,  the  turning  of  the  knob,  or  tho 
cheery  voice  which  said  to  her. 

« Edith,  are  you  asleep?" 

Arthur  had  come. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


It  was  not  a  common  occurrence  for  a  "visitor  to  present 
himself  at  Collingwood  at  so  early  an  hour  as  that  in 
which  Arthur  St.  Claire  rang  for  admittance,  and  Victor, 
who  heard  the  bell,  hastened  in  some  surprise  to  answer  it. 
•  "  Tell  Mr.  Harrington  a  stranger  wishes  to  see  him," 
gaid  Arthur,  following  the  polite  valet  into  the  library, 
where  a  fire  was  slowly  struggling  into  life. 

"Yes,  sir.  What  name?"  and  Victor  waited  for  a 
moment,  while  Arthur  hesitated,  and  finally  stammered 
out: 

"Mr.  St.  Claire,  from  Virginia." 

Immediately  Victor  withdrew,  and  seeking  his  master, 
delivered  the  message,  adding  that  the  gentleman  seemed 
embarrassed,  and  he  wouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  come  to 
borrow  money. 

"St.  Claire  —  St.  Claire,"  Richard  repeated  to  himself 
"Where  have  I  heard  that  name  before?  Somewhere, 
sure." 

"  He  called  himself  a  stranger,"  returned  Victor,  add'ng 
that  a  youth  by  that  name  was  visiting  at  Brier  Hill,  and 
it  was  probably  of  him  that  Mr.  Harrington  was  thinking. 

"It  may  be,  though  I've  no  remembrance1  of  having 


54  DARKNESS   AND 

heard  that  fact,"  returned  Richard ;  "  but,  lead  on,"  and 
he  took  the  arm  of  Victor,  who  lead  him  to  the  library 
door  and  then,  as  was  his  custom,  turned  away. 

More  than  once  during  the  rapid  journey,  Arthur  had 
half  resolved  to  turn  back  and  not  run  the  fearful  risk  of 
being  recognized  by  Richard  Harrington,  but  the  remem- 
brance of  Edith's  mute  distress  should  he  return  alono, 
emboldened  him  to  go  on  and  trust  to  Providence,  or,  if 
Providence  failed,  trust  tg  Richard's  generosity  not  to  bo- 
tray  Lis  secret.  He  heard  the  uncertain  footsteps  in  the 
hall,  and  forgetting  that  the  eyes  he  so  much  dreaded 
could  not  see,  he  pulled  his  coat  collar  up  around  his  face 
so  as  to  conceal  as  much  of  it  as  possible. 

"Mr.  St.  Claire?  Is  there  such  a  person  here?"  and 
Richard  Harrington  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door, 
and  with  his  sightless  eyes  rolling  around  the  room,  stood 
waiting  for  an  answer. 

How  well  Arthur  remembered  that  rich,  full,  musical 
voice.  It  seemed  to  him  but  yesterday  since  he  heard  it 
before,  and  he  shrank  more  and  more  from  the  reply  which 
must  be  made  to  that  question,  and  quickly,  too,  for  the 
countenance  of  the  blind  man  was  beginning  to  wear  a 
look  of  perplexity  at  the  continued  silence. 

Summoning  all  his  courage  he  stepped  forward  and 
taking  the  hand  groping  in  the  air,  said  rapidly,  "Ex- 
cuse me,  Mr.  Harrington,  I  hardly  know  what  to  say,  I've 
come  upon  so  queer  an  errand.  You  know  Edith  Has- 
tings, the  little  girl  who  lived  with  Mrs.  Atherton  ?  " 

He  thought  by  introducing  Edith  at  once  to  divert  the 
blind  man  from  himself,  but  Richard's  quick  ear  had 
.caught  a  tone  not  wholly  unfamiliar  as  he  replied, 

"  Yes,  I  know  Edith  Hastings,  and  it  seems  to  me  I 
Ctight  to  know  you,  too.  I've  heard  your  name  and 
voice  before.  Wasn't  it  in  Geneva  ?  "  and  the  eagle  eyes 
fastened  themselves  upon  the  wall-  just  back  of  wher« 
Arthur  stood. 


ANO    ARTHUR.  55 

Arthur  fairly  gasped  for  breath,  and  for  an  instant  he 
as  blind  as  Richard  himself;  then,  catching  at  the 
word  Geneva,  he  answered,  "  Did  you  ever  live  in  Gene- 
va, sir  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  village,  but  near  there  on  the  lake  shore," 
answered  Richard,  and  Arthur  continued, 

"  You  probably  attended  the  examinations  then  at  the 
Academy,  and  heard  me  speak.  I  was  a  pupil  there 
nearly  two  years  before  entering  the  college." 

Arthur  fancied  himself  remarkably  clever  for  having 
suggested  an  idea  which  seemed  so  perfectly  to  satisfy 
his  companion  and  which  was  not  a  falsehood  either. 
He  had  been  a  student  hi  the  Academy  for  nearly  two 
years,  had  spoken  at  all  the  exhibitions,  receiving  the 
prize  at  one ;  he  had  seen  Richard  Harrington  among  the 
spectators,  and  had  no  doubt  that  Richard  might  have  ob- 
served him,  though  not  very  closely,  else  he  had  never 
put  himself  in  his  power  by  the  one  single  act  which  was 
embittering  his  young  life. 

"It  is  likely  you  are  right,"  said  Richard,  "  I  was  often 
at  the  examinations,  and  since  my  misfortune  I  find  my- 
self recognizing  voices  as  I  never  could  have  done  when. 
I  had  sight  as  well  as  hearing  upon  which  to  depend. 
But  you  spoke  of  Edith  Hastings.  I  trust  no  harm  has 
befallen  the  child.  I  am  much  interested  in  her  and  won- 
der she  has  not  been  here  long  ere  this.  What  would  you 
tell  me  of  her?" 

Briefly  Arthur  related  the  particulars  of  his  visit  at 
Brier  Hill,  a  visit  which  had  ended  so  disastrously  to 
Edith,  and  even  before  he  reached  the  important  point, 
Richard  answered  promptly,  "  She  shall  come  here,  I  need 
her.  I  want  her  —  want  her  for  my  sister,  my  child.  I 
shall  never  have  another;"  then  pressing  his  hands  sud- 
denly upon  his  forehead,  whose  blue  veins  seemed  to  swell 
with  the  intensity  of  his  emotions,  he  continued.  "But, 
no,  Mr.  St.  Claire.  It  cannot  be,  she  is  too  young,  t°o 


56  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

merry-hearted,  too  full  of  life  and  love  to  be  brought  tnie 
the  shadow  of  our  household.  She  would  die  upon  my 
hands.  Her  voice  would  grow  sadder  and  more  mournful 
with  the  coming  of  every  season,  until  at  last  when  I  had 
learned  to  love  her  as  my  life,  I  should  some  morning  listen 
for  what  would  never  greet  my  ear  again,  It's  a  great 
temptation,  but  it  must  not  be.  A  crazy  aid  man  and 
his  blind  son  are  not  fit  guardians  for  a  child  like  Edith 
Hastings.  She  must  not  walk  in  our  darkness." 

"But  might  not  her  presence  bring  daylight  to  that 
darkness  ? "  asked  Arthur,  gazing  with  mingled  feelings 
of  wonder  and  admiration  upon  the  singularly  handsome, 
noble-looking  man,  who  was  indeed  walking  in  thick  dark- 
ness. 

"  She  might,"  said  Richard.  "Yes,  she  might  bring  the 
full  rich  daylight  to  us,  but  on  her  the  shadow  would  fall 
with  a  fearful  blackness  if  she  linked  her  destiny  with 
mine.  Young  man,  do  you  like  Edith  Hastings,  if  so,  take 
her  yourself,  and  if  money " 

Arthur  here  interrupted  him  with,  "  I  have  money  of 
my  own,  sir ;  but  I  have  no  home  at  present.  I  am  a 
student  in  college.  I  can  do  nothing  with  her  there,  but 
— "  and  his  voice  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper.  "  Years  hence, 
I  hope  to  have  a  home,  and  then,  if  you  are  tired  of  Edith 
I  will  take  her.  Meantime  keep  her  at  Collingwood  for 
me.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"You  are  young,  I  think,"  said  Richard,  smiling  at 
Arthur's  proposition,  and  smiling  again,  when  in  tones 
apologetical,  as  if  to  be  only  so  old  were  something  of 
which  he  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Arthur  returned, 

"  I  am  nineteen  this  month." 

"And  I  was  thirty,  last  spring,"  said  Richard.  "An 
old  man,  you  think,  no  doubt.  But  to  return  to  Edith 
Hastings.  My  heart  wants  her  so  much,  while  my  bettei 
judgment  rebels  against  it.  Will  she  be  greatly  disap- 
pointed if  I  refuse  ?" 


RICHARD    A2O)    ARTHUR.  67 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  said  Arthur,  grasping  the  hand  laying 
on  Richard's  knee.  I  can't  go  back  to  her  without  you= 
But,  Mr.  Harrington,  before  I  urge  it  farther,  let  me  ask 
as  her  friend,  will  she  come  here  as  a  servant,  or  an  equal.* 

There  was  an  upward  flashing  of  the  keen  black  eyes, 
a  flu s?  upon  the  high,  white  forehead,  and  Richard  impa- 
viimth  stamped  upon  the  floor  as  he  answered  proudly, 

"  She  comes  as  an  equal,  or  not  at  all.  She  shall  be  as 
highly  educated  and  as  thoroughly  accomplished  as  if  the 
blood  of  the  Harringtons  flowed  in  her  veins." 

"Then  take  her,"  and  Arthur  seemed  more  anxious 
than  before.  "She  will  do  justice  to  your  training.  She 
will  be  wondrously  beautiful.  She  will  grace  the  halls  of 
Collingwood  with  the  air  of  England's  queen.  You  will 
not  be  ashamed  of  her,  and  who  knows  but  some  day  —  " 

Arthur  began  to  stammer,  and  at  last  managed  to  finish 
with,  "There  is  not  such  a  vast  difference  in  your  ages. 
Twenty-one  years  is  nothing  when  weighed  against  the 
debt  of  gratitude  she  will  owe  you  — " 

"  There,  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself,"  he  thought,  as  he 
saw  the  forehead  tie  itself  up  in  knots,  and  the  corners  of 
the  mouth  twitch  with  merriment. 

"  By  that  last  speech  you've  proved  how  young  and  ro- 
mantic you  are,"  answered  Richard.  "  Winter  and  spring 
go  not  well  together.  Edith  Hastings  will  never  be  my 
wife.  But  she  shall  come  to  Collingwood.  I  will  return 
with  you  and  bring  her  back  myself." 

Ringing  the  bell  for  Victor,  he  bade  him  see  that  break- 
fast was  served  at  once,  saying  that  he  was  going  with 
bis  friend  to  Albany. 

4  Without  me?"  asked  Victor  in  much  surprise,  and 
J{u  nard  replied, 

"Yes,  without  you,"  adding  in   an  aside  to  Arthur, 

*  Victor  Is  so  much  accustomed  to  waiting  upon  me  that 

he  thinks  himself  necessary  to  every  movement,  but  I'd 

rather  travel  alone  with  Edith,  she'll  do  as  well  as  Victor 

8* 


68  ^DAEKNKSS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

and  I  have  a  fancy  to  keep  my  movements  a  secret,  at 
least  until  the  child  is  fairly  in  the  house.  It  will  be  a 
surprise  to  Mrs.  Atherton;  I'll  have  John  drive  ua  to 
the  next  station,  and  meet  me  there  to-morrow." 

So  saying,  he  excused  himself  for  a  few  moments  and 
groped  his  way  up  stairs  to  make  some  necessary  changes 
in  his  dress.  Fer  several  minutes  Arthur  was  alone,  and 
fi  ae  to  congratulate  himself  upon  his  escape  from  detection. 

"  In  my  dread  of  recognition  I  undoubtedly  aggravated 
its  chances,"  he  thought.  "  Of  course  this  Mr.  Harring- 
ton did  not  observe  me  closely.  It  was  night,  and  he  was 
almost  blind,  even  then.  My  voice  and  manner  are  all 
that  can  betray  me,  and  as  he  is  apparently  satisfied  on 
that  point,  I  have  nothing  further  to  apprehend  from  him." 

Arthur  liked  to  feel  well  —  disagreeable  reflections  did 
not  suit  his  temperament,  and  having  thus  dismissed  from 
his  mind  the  only  thing  annoying  him  at  the  present,  he 
began  to  examine  the  books  arrayed  so  carefully  upon  the 
shelves,  whistling  to  himself  as  he  did  so,  and  pronouncing 
Arthur  St.  Claire  a  pretty  good  fellow  after  all,  if  he  had 
a  secret  of  which  most  people  would  hot  approve.  Ho 
had  just  reached  this  conclusion  when  Richard  reappeared, 
and  breakfast  was  soon  after  announced  by  the  valet, 
Victor.  That  being  over,  there  was  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost  if  they  would  reach  the  cars  in  time  for  the  next 
train,  and  bidding  his  father  a  kind  adieu,  Richard  went 
with  Arthur  to  the  carriage,  and  was  driven  to  the  depot 
of  the  adjoining  town.  More  than  one  passenger  turned 
their  heads  to  look  at  the  strangers  as  they  came  in,  the 
elder  led  by  the  younger,  who  yet  managed  so  skillfully 
that  but  fovv  guessed  how  great  a  calamity  had  befallen 
the  man  with  the  dark  hair,  and  black,  glittering  eyes, 
Arthur  took  a  great  pride  in  ministering  to  the  wants  of 
his  companion,  and  in  all  he  did  there  was  a  delicacy  and 
tenderness  which  touched  a  chord  almost  fraternal  in  the 
heart  of  the  blind  man,  who,  as  the  day  wore  on,  found 


EICHABD    AND    EDITH.  59 

himself  drawn  more  and  more  toward  his  new  acquaint 
ance. 

"  I  believe  even  I  might  be  happy  if  both  you  and  Edith 
could  live  with  ine,"  he  said,  at  last,  when  Albany  was 
reached,  and  they  were  ascending  the  steps  to  the  Delevan. 

"Poor  little  Edith,"  rejoined  Arthur,  "I  wonder  if  sho 
oas  been  very  lonely?  Shall  we  go  to  her  at  once ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Richard,  and  leaning  on  Artlmr's  arm, 
be  proceeded  to  the  door  of  Edith's  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

KICHARD    AND   EDITH. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Arthur,  you  did  come  back,"  and  forgetting, 
in  her  great  joy,  that  Arthur  was  a  gentleman,  and  she  a 
waiting-maid,  Edith  wound  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
kissed  him  twice  ere  tie  well  knew  what  she  was  doing. 

For  an  instant  the  haughty  young  man  felt  a  flush  of 
insulted  dignity,  but  it  quickly  vanished  when  he  saw  the 
tall  form  of  Richard  bending  over  the  little  girl  and  heard 
him  saying  to  her, 

"  Have  you  no  welcoming  kiss  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  forty  hundred,  if  you  like,"  and  in  her  delight 
Edith  danced  about  the  room  like  one  insane. 

Thrusting  the  locket  slily  into  Arthur's  hand,  she  whis- 
pered, 

"  I  slept  with  her  last  night,  and  dreamed  it  was  not 
the  first  time  either.  Will  you  ask  her  when  you  see  her 
if  she  ever  knew  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  answered,  making  a  gesture  for  her  to 
atop  as  Richard  was  about  to  speak. 

"  Edith,"   said   Richard,  winding  his  arm   around  her. 


60  I>ABKNE88   AND   DATLIGHT. 

"Edith,  I  have  come  to  take  you  home  —  to  take  yon  tc 
Collingwood.  to  live  with  me.  Do  you  wish  to  go '(  " 

"Ain't  there  ghosts  at  Collingwood ? "  asked  Edith, 
who,  now  that  what  she  most  desired  was  just  within  her 
reach,  began  like  every  human  being  to  see  goblins  in  the 
path.  "  Ain't  there  ghosts,  at  Collingwood  ?  —  a  little  boy 
witli  golden  curls,  and  must  I  sleep  in  the  chamber  with 
him?" 

"Poor  child,"  said  Richard,  "You  too,  have  heard 
that  idle  tale.  Shall  I  tell  you  of  the  boy  with  golden 
hair  ?  "  and  holding  her  so  close  to  him  that  he  could  feel 
the  beating  of  her  heart  and  hear  her  soft,  low  breathing, 
he  told  her  all  there  was  to  tell  of  his  half-brother  Charlie, 
who  died  just  one  day  after  his  young  mother,  and  waa 
buried  in  the  same  coffin. 

They  could  not  return  to  Collingwood  that  night,  and 
the  evening  was  spent  in  the  private  parlor  which  Arthur 
engaged  for  himself  and  his  blind  friend.  It  was  strange 
how  fast  they  grew  to  liking  each  other,  and  it  was  a 
pleasant  sight  to  look  at  them  as  they  sat  there  in  the 
warm  firelight  which  the  lateness  of  the  season  made 
necessary  to  their  comfort  —  the  one  softened  and  toned 
down  by  affliction  and  the  daily  cross  he  was  compelled 
to  bear,  the  other  in  the  first  flush  of  youth  when  *the 
world  lay  all  bright  before  him  and  he  had  naught  to  do 
but  enter  the  Elysian  fields  and  pluck  the  fairest  flowers. 

It  was  late  when  they  separated,  but  at  a  comparatively 
early  hour  the  next  morning  they  assembled  again,  this 
tune  to  bid  good-by,  for  their  paths  hereafter  lay  in  differ- 
ent directions. 

"  You  must  write  to  me,  little  metaphysics,"  said  Arthur, 
as  with  hat  and  shawl  in  hand  he  stood  in  the  di  pot  on 
the  east  side  of  the  Hudson. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Richard,  "  she  is  to  be  my  private 
amanuensis,  and  shall  let  you  know  of  our  welfare,  and 
now,  I  suppose,  we  must  go." 


RICHARD   AND   EDITR.  61 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  ride  to  Edith,  j.  leasanter  that 
when  she  came  with  Arthur,  but  a  slight  headache  made 
her  drowsy,  and  leaning  on  Richard's  arm  she  fell  asleep, 
nor  woke  until  West  Shannondale  was  reached.  The 
carnage  was  in  waiting  for  them,  and  V  ictor  sat  inside. 
I[o  had  come  ostensibly  to  meet  his  master,  but  really  to 
see  the  kind  of  specimen  he  was  bringing  to  the  aristo- 
cratic halls  of  Collingwood. 

Long  and  earnest  had  been  the  discussion  there  con- 
cerning the  little  lady ;  Mrs.  Matson,  the  housekeeper, 
sneering  rather  contemptuously  at  one  who  heretofore 
had  been  a  servant  at  Brier  Hill.  Victor,  on  the  contra- 
ry, stood  ready  to  espouse  her  cause,  thinking  within  him- 
self how  he  would  teach  her  many  points  of  etiquette  of 
which  he  knew  she  must  necessarily  be  ignorant;  but 
firstly  he  would,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "  see  what 
kind  of  metal  she  was  made  of." 

Accordingly  his  first  act  at  the  depot  was  to  tread  upon 
her  toes,  pretending  he  did  not  see  her,  but  Edith  knew 
he  did  it  purposely,  and  while  her  black  eyes  blazed  with 
anger,  she  exclaimed, 

"  You  wretch,  how  dare  you  be  so  rude?" 

Assisting  Richard  into  the  carriage,  Victor  was  about 
to  turn  away,  leaving  Edith  to  take  care  of  herself,  when 
with  all  the  air  of  a  queen,  she  said  to  him, 

"  Help  me  in,  sir.    Don't  you  know  your  business ! " 

"Pardonnez,  moi"  returned  Victor,  speaking  in  his 
mother  tongue,  and  bowing  low  to  the  indignant  child, 
whom  l«e  helped  to  a  seat  by  Richard. 

An  t.pur's  drive  brought  them  to  the  gate  of  Colling- 
wood, and  Edith  was  certainly  pardonable  if  she  did  cast 
a  glance  of  exultation  in  the  direction  of  Brier  Hill,  as 
they  wound  up  the  gravelled  road  and  through  the  hand- 
gome  grounds  of  what  henceforth  was  to  be  her  home. 

"  I  guess  Mrs.  Atherton  will  be  sorry  she  acted  so,"  she 
thought,  and  she  was  even  revolving  the  expediency  of 


62  DAKKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

pulling  on  airs  and  not  speaking  to  her  former  mistress, 
when  the  carriage  stopped  and  Victor  appeared  at  the 
window  all  attention,  and  asking  if  he  should  "  assist  Misa 
Hastings  to  alight." 

In  the  door  Mrs.  Matson  was  waiting  to  receive  them, 
rubbing  her  gold-bowed  spectacles  and  stroking  her  heavy 
BKk  with  an  air  which  would  have  awed  a  child  less  self- 
assured  than  Edith.  Nothing  grand  or  elegant  seemed 
strange  or  new  to  her.  On  the  contrary  she  took  to  it 
naturally  as  if  it  were  her  native  element,  and  now  as  she 
stepped  upon  the  marble  floor  of  the  lofty  hall  she  invol- 
untarily cut  a  pirouette,  exclaiming,  "Oh,  but  isn't  this 
jolly !  Seems  as  if  I'd  got  back  to  Heaven.  What  a 
splendid  room  to  sing  in,"  and  she  began  to  warble  a  wild, 
impassioned  air  which  made  Richard  pause  and  listen, 
wondering  whence  came  the  feeling  which  so  affected  him 
carrying  him  back  to  the  hills  of  Germany. 

Mrs.  Matson  looked  shocked,  Victor  amused,  while  the 
sensible  driver  muttered  to  himself  as  he  gathered  up  his 
reins,  "  That  gal  is  just  what  Colling  wood  needs  to  keep 
it  from  being  a  dungeon." 

Mrs.  Matson  had  seen  Edith  at  Brier  Hill,  but  this  did 
Hot  prevent  her  from  a  close  scrutiny  as  she  conducted 
her  to  the  large,  handsome  chamber,  which  Richard 
in  his  hasty  directions  of  the  previous  morning  had 
said  was  to  be  hers,  and  which,  with  its  light,  tasteful 
furniture,  crimson  curtains,  and  cheerful  blazing  fire  seemed 
to  the  delighted  child  a  second  paradise.  Clapping  her 
hands  she  danced  about  the  apartment,  screaming,  "It's 
Uie  jolliest  place  I  ever  was  in." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  word  jolly  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Matson,  with  a  great  deal  of  dignity ;  but  ere  Edith  could 
reply,  Victor,  who  came  up  with  the  foreign  chest,  chimod 
in,  "She  means  pretty, Madame  Matson,  and  understands 
French,  no  doubt.  Parky  vous  Franyais  ? "  and  he 
turned  to  Edith,  who,  while  recognizing  something  fiunil- 


RICHARD    AND    EDITH.  6S 

tar  in  the  sound,  felt  sure  he  was  making  fun  of  her  and 
answered  back,  "  Parley  voo  fool!  I'll  tell  Mr.  Harring- 
ton how  -you  tease  me." 

Laughing  aloud  at  her  reply,  Victor  put  the  ohest  hi 
its  place,  made  some  remark  concerning  its  quaint  appear- 
ance, and  bowed  himself  from  the  room,  saying  to  her  as 
ho  shut  the  door, 

"  Bon  .soir.  Mademoiselle? 

"  I've  heard  that  kind  of  talk  before,"  thought  Edith, 
as  she  began  to  brush  her  hair,  preparatory  to  going  down 
to  supper,  which  Mrs.  Matson  said  was  waiting. 

At  the  table  she  met  with  the  old  man,  who  had  seen 
her  alight  from  the  carnage,  and  had  asked  the  mischievous 
Victor,  "  Who  was  the  small  biped  Richard  had  brought 
home  ?  " 

"That,"  said  Victor.  "Why,  that  is  Charlie  turned 
into  a  girl."  And  preposterous  as  the  idea  seemed,  the 
old  man  siezed  upon  it  at  once,  smoothing  Edith's  hair 
when  he  saw  her,  tapping  her  rosy  cheeks,  calling  her 
Charlie,  and  muttering  to  himself  of  the  wonderful  pro- 
cess which  had  transformed  his  fair-haired  boy  into  a 
black-haired  girl. 

Sometimes  the  utter  impossibility  of  the  thing  seemed 
to  penetrate  even  his  darkened  mind,  and  then  he  would 
whisper,  "I'll  make  believe  it's  Charlie,  any  way,"  so 
Charlie  he  pei'sisted  in  calling  her,  and  Richard  encour- 
aged him  in  this  whim,  when  he  found  how  much  satis- 
faction it  afforded  the  old  man  to  "  make  believe." 

The  day  following  Edith's  arrival  at  Collingwood  theru 
was  a  long  consultation  between  Richard  and  Victor  con- 
cerning the  little  girl,  about  whose  personal  appearance 
the  former  would  now  know  something  definite. 

"  How  does  Edith  Hastings  look?  "  he  asked,  and  after 
a  moment  of  grave  deliberation,  Victor  replied, 

"  She  has  a  fat  round  face,  with  regular  features,  except 
that  the  nose  turns  up  somewhat  after  the  spitfire  order, 


64  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT 

and  her  mouth  is  a  trifle  too  wide.  Her  forehead  is  not 
very  high — it  would  not  become  her  style  if  it  were 
Her  hair  is  splendid — thick,  black  and  glossy  as  satin, 
and  her  eyes, —  there  are  not  words  enough  either  in  the 
French  or  English  language  with  which  to  describe  her 
eyes  — they  are  so  bright  and  deep  that  nobody  can  look 
into  them  long  without  wincing.  I  should  say,  sir,  if  put 
on  oath,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  the  deuce  in  her  eyes.1' 

"  When  she  is  excited,  you  mean,"  interrupted  Richard. 
"  How  are  they  in  repose  ?  " 

"  They  are  never  there,"  returned  Victor.  "  They  roll 
and  turn  and  flash  and  sparkle,  and  light  upon  one  so  un- 
comfortably, that  he  begins  to  think  of  all  the  badness  he 
ever  did,  and  to  wonder  if  those  coals  of  fire  can't  ferret 
out  the  whole  thing." 

"  I  like  her  eyes,"  said  Richard,  "  but  go  on.  Tell  me 
of  her  complexion." 

"  Black,  of  course,"  continued  Victor,  "  but  smooth  as 
glass,  with  just  enough  of  red  in  it  to  make  rouge  unne- 
cessary. On  the  whole  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  in  seven  or 
eight  years'  time  she'd  be  as  handsome  as  the  young  lady 
of  Collingwood  ought  to  be." 

"How  should  she  be  dressed?"  asked  Richard,  who 
knew  that  Victor's  taste  upon  such  matters  was  infallible, 
his  mother  and  sister  both  having  been  Paris  mantua- 
makers. 

"She  should  have  scarlet  and  crimson  and  dark  bk» 
trimmed  with  black,"  said  Victor,  adding  that  he  presum- 
ed Mrs.  Atherton  would  willingly  attend  to  those  matters. 

Richard  was  not  so  sure,  but  he  thought  it  worth  the 
while  to  try,  and  he  that  night  dispatched  Victor  to  Brier 
Hill  with  a  request  that  she  would,  if  convenient,  call 
upon  him  at  once. 

"Don't  tell  her  what  I  want,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  sur- 
prise her  with  a  sight  of  Edith." 

Victoi   promised  obedience  and  set  off  for  Brier  Hili, 


BlCflARD    AST)    EDITH.  6i> 

wheru  he  found  no  one  but  Rachel,  suting  before  the 
kitchen  firo,  and  watching  the  big  red  apples  roasting  upor 
the  hearth. 

"Miss  Grace  had  started  that  morning  for  New  York," 
she  said.  "  and  the  Lord  only  knew  when  she'd  come 
hoirfe." 

"  Anc1  as  he  probably  won't  tell,  I  may  as  well  go  back," 
rot  timed  Victor,  and  bidding  Rachel  send  her  mistress  to 
Collingwood  as  soon  as  she  should  return,  he  bowed  him 
self  from  the  room. 

As  Rachel  said,  Grace  had  gone  to  New  York,  and  the 
object  of  Ijer  going  was  to  repair  the  wrong  done  to  Edith 
Hastings,  by  taking  her  a  second  time  from  the  Asylum, 
and  bringing  her  back  to  Brier  Hill.  Day  and  night  the 
child's  parting  words,  f'  You'll  be  sorry  sometime,"  rang 
in  her  ears,  until  she  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  she  as- 
tonished the  delighted  Rachel  by  announcing  her  inten- 
tion of  going  after  the  little  girl.  With  her  to  will  was 
to  do,  and  while  Victor  was  reporting  her  absence  to  his 
master,  she,  half-distracted,  was  repeating  the  words  of 
the  matron, 

"  Has  not  been  here  at  all,  and  have  not  heard  from  her 
either !  What  can  it  mean  ?  " 

The  matron  could  not  tell,  and  for  several  days  Grace 
lingered  in  the  city,  hoping  Arthur  would  appear,  but  as 
he  failed  to  do  this,  she  at  last  wrote  to  him  at  Geneva, 
and  then,  in  a  sad,  perplexed  state  of  mind,  returned  to 
Shannondale,  wondering  at  and  even  chiding  old  Rachel 
fer  evincing  so  little  feeling  at  her  disappointment. 

But.  old  Rachel  by  this  time  had  her  secret  which  she 
meant  to  keep,  and  when  at  last  Grace  asked  if  any  one 
had  called  during  her  absence,  she  mentioned  the  names 
of  every  one  save  Victor,  and  then  tried  very  hard  to 
think  "  who  that  'tother  one  was.  She  knowed  there 
was  somebody  else,  but  for  the  life  of  her  she  couldn't "  — • 
Rachel  did  not  quite  dare  to  tell  so  gross  a  falsehood, 


66  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

and  so  at  this  point  she  concluded  to  think%  and  added 
suddenly, 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now.  'Twas  that  tall,  long 
haired,  scented-up,  big-feelin'  man  they  call  Squire  Hur 
rln'ton's  vatty" 

"  Victor  Dupres  been  here!  "and  Grace's  face  lighted 
perceptibly. 

"  Yes,  he  said  mouse-eer,  or  somethin'  like  that  —  mean- 
in'  the  squire,  in  course  —  wanted  you  to  come  up  thar  as 
soon  as  you  got  home,  and  my  'pinion  is  that  you  go  to 
oncet.  'Twont  be  dark  this  good  while." 

Nothing  could  be  more  in  accordance  with  Grace's  feel- 
ings than  to  follow  Rachel's  advice,  and,  half  an  hour  lat- 
er, Victor  reported  to  his  master  that  the  carriage  from 
Brier  Hill  had  stopped  before  their  door.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  describe  Mrs.  Atherton's  astonishment  when, 
on  entering  the  parlor,  the  first  object  that  met  her  view 
was  her  former  waiting-maid,  attired  in  the  crimson  meri- 
no which  Mrs.  Matson,  Lulu,  the  chambermaid,  and  Vic- 
tor had  gotten  up  between  them ;  and  which,  though  not 
the  best  fit  in  the  world,  was,  in  color,  exceedingly  be- 
coming to  the  dark-eyed  child,  who,  perched  upon  the 
Inusic-stool,  was  imitating  her  own  operatic  songs  to  the 
infinite  delight  of  the  old  man,  nodding  his  approval  of 
the  horrid  discords. 

"  Edith  Hastings ! "  she  exclaimed,  What  are  you  doing 
here  ?  "  Springing  from  the  stool  and  advancing  towards 
Grace,  Edith  replied, 

"  I  live  here.  I'm  Mr.  Richard's  little  girl.  I  eat  at 
the  table  with  him,  too,  and  don't  have  to  wash  the  dishes 
cither.  I'm  going  to  be  a  lady  just  like  you,  ain't  I,  Mr 
Harrington?"  and  she  turned  to  Richard,  who  had  enter- 
ed in  time  to  hear  the  last  of  her  remarks. 

There  was  a  world  of  love  in  the  sightless  eyes  turned 
toward  the  little  girl,  and  by  that  token,  Grace  Athcrtou 
knew  that  Edith  had  spoken  truly. 


KICHARD   AND    EDITH.  67 

"  Run  away,  Edith,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  talk  with  the 
lady  r.lone." 

Edith  obeyed,  and  when  she  was  gone  Richard  explain 
ed  to  Grace  what  seemed  to  her  so  mysterious,  while  she 
in  return  confessed  the  injustice  clone  to  the  child,  and 
told  how  she  had  sought  to  repair  the  wrong. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  taken  her,"  she  said.  '  She  will 
be  happier  with  you  than  with  me,  for  she  likes  you  best. 
I  think,  too,  she  will  make  good  use  of  any  advantages 
you  may  give  her.  She  has  a  habit  of  obsei-ving  close-  • 
ly,  while  her  powers  of  imitation  are  unsurpassed.  She 
is  fond  of  elegance  and  luxury,  and  nothing  can  please 
her  more  than  to  be  an  equal  in  a  house  like  this.  But 
what  do  you  wish  of  me  ?  What  can  I  do  to  assist  you  ?  " 

In  a  few  words  Richard  stated,  his  wishes  that  she 
should  attend  to  Edith's  wardrobe,  saving  he  had  but 
little  faith  in  Mrs.  Matson's  taste.  He  could  not  have 
selected  a  better  person  to  spend  his  money  than  Grace, 
who,  while  purchasing  nothing  out  of  place,  bought  always 
the  most  expensive  articles  in  market,  and  when  at  last 
the  process  was  ended,  and  the  last  dressmaker  gone  from 
Collingwood,  Victor,  with  a  quizzical  expression  upon  his 
face,  handed  his  master  a  bill  for  five  hundred  dollars,  that 
being  the  exact  amount  expended  upon  Edith's  wardrobe. 
But  Richard  uttered  no  word  of  complaint.  .During  the 
few  weeks  she  had  lived  with  him  she  had  crept  away 
down  into  his  heart  just  where  Charlie  used  to  be,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  his  power  to  give  which  he  would 
withhold  from  her  now.  She  should  have  the  best  of  teach- 
ers, he  said,  particularly  in  music,  of  which  she  was  pas- 
sionately fond. 

Accordingly,  in  less  than  a  week  there  came  to  Colling- 
wood  a  Boston  governess,  armed  and  equipped  with  all 
the  accomplishments  of  the  day;  and  beneath  the  supervi- 
sion of  Richard  and  Victor,  Grace  Atherton  and  Mrs, 
Chapen,  Edith's  education  began. 


68  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WOMANHOOD. 

Eight  times  have  the  Christmas  fires  been  kindled  u 
the  hearths  of  Shannondale's  happy  homes;  eight  timea 
the  bell  from  St  Luke's  tower  has  proclaimed  an  old  year 
dead,  and  a  new  one  bom ;  eight  times  the  meek-eyed 
daisy  struggling  through  the  April  snow,  has  blossomed, 
faded  and  died ;  eight  times  has  summer  in  all  her  glow- 
ing beauty  sat  upon  the  New  England  hills,  and  the  mel- 
low autumnal  light  of  the  hazy  October  days  falls  on 
Collingwood  for  the  eighth  time  since  last  we  trod  the 
winding  paths  and  gravelled  walks  where  now  the  yellow 
leaves  are  drifting  down  from  the  tall  old  maples  and  lofty 
elms,  and  where  myriad  flowers  of  gorgeous  hue  are  lifting 
their  proud  heads  unmindful  of  the  November  frosts 
hastening  on  apace.  All  around  Collingwood  seems  the 
same,  save  that  the  shrubs  and  vines  show  a  more  luxuri- 
ous growth,  and  the  pond  a  wider  sweep,  but  within  there 
is  an  empty  chair,  a  vacant  place,  for  the  old  man  has  gone 
to  join  his  lost  ones  where  there  is  daylight  forever,  and 
the  winter  snows  have  four  times  fallen  upon  his  grave. 
They  missed  him  at  first  and  mourned  for  him  truly,  but 
they  have  become  accustomed  to  live  without  him,  and 
the  household  life  goes  on  much  as  it  did  before. 

It  is  now  the  afternoon  of  a  mild  October  day,  and  the 
doors  and  windows  are  opened  wide  to  adoit  the  w  irm 
south  wind,  which,  dallying  for  a  moment  with  the  cur 
tains  of  costly  lace,  floats  on  to  the  chamber  above,  where 
it  toys  with  the  waving  plumes  a  young  girl  is  arranging 
upon  her  riding  hat,  pausing  occasionally  to  speak  to  the 
fair  blonde  who  sits  watching  her  movements,  and  wLosq 


WOMANHOOD.  69 

face  betokens  a  greater  maturity  thai  her  own,  for  Grace 
Alherton's  family  Bible  says  she  is  thirty-two,  while  Edith 
is  seventeen. 

Beautiful  Edith  Hastings.  Eight  years  of  delicate  nur 
lure,  tender  care  and  perfect  health  have  ripened  her  into 
a  maiden  of  wondrous  beauty,  and  far  and  near  the  peo- 
ple talk  of  the  blind  man's  ward,  the  pride  and  glory  of 
(Jollingwood.  Neither  pains  nor  money,  nor  yet  severe 
discipline,  have  been  spared  by  Richard  Harrington  to 
make  her  what  she  is,  and  while  her  imperious  temper 
has  bent  to  the  one,  her  intellect  and  manners  have  ex- 
panded and  improved  beneath  the  influence  of  the  other, 
and  Richard  has  not  only  a  plaything  and  pet  in  the  little 
girl  he  took  from  obscurity,  but  also  a  companion  and 
equal,  capable  of  entering  with  him  the  mazy  labyrinths 
of  science,  and  astonishing  him  with  the  wealth  of  her 
richly  stored  mind.  Still,  in  everything  pertaining  to  her 
womanhood  she  is  wholly  feminine  and  simple-hearted  as 
a  child.  Now,  as  of  old,  she  bounds  through  the  spacious 
grounds  of  Collingwood,  trips  over  the  grassy  lawn, 
dances  up  the  stairs,  and  fills  the  once  gloomy  old  place 
with  a  world  of  melody  and  sunlight.  Edith  knows  that 
she  is  beautiful !  old  Rachel  has  told  her  so  a  thousand 
times,  while  Victor,  the  admiring  valet,  tells  her  so  every 
day,  taking  to  himself  no  little  credit  for  having  taught 
her,  as  he  thinks,  something  of  Parisian  manners.  Many 
are  the  conversations  she  holds  with  him  in  his  mother 
tongue,  for  she  has  learned  to  speak  that  language  with  a 
fluency  and  readiness  which  astonished  her  teachers  and 
sometimes  astonished  herself.  It  did  not  seem  difficult  to 
b  *r,  but  rather  like  an  old  friend,  and  Marie  at  first  was 
written  on  every  page  of  Ollendorff.  But  Marie  has  fad- 
ed now  almost  entirely  from  her  mind,  as  have  those  oth- 
er mysterious  memories  which  used  to  haunt  hei  so 
Nothing  but  the  hair  hidden  in  the  chest  binds  her  to  the 
past,  and  at  this  she  often  looks,  wondering  where  tb 


70  DARKNESS  AND   DAYLIGHT. 

head  it  once  adornecf  is  lying,  whether  in  the  noisy  city 
or  on  some  grassy  hillside  where  the  wild  flowers  she 
loves  best  are  growing,  and  the  birds  whose  songs  she 
tries  to  imitate,  pause  sometimes  to  warble  a  requiem  fci 
the  dead.  Those  tresses  are  beautiful,  but  not  so  beautii al 
as  Edith's,  fler  blue-black  hair  ia  thicker,  glossier,  more 
abundant  than  in  her  childhood,  and  is  worn  in  heavy 
braids  or  bands  around  her  head,  adding  greatly  to  hor 
regal  style  of  beauty.  Edith  has  a  pardonable  pride  in 
her  satin  hair,  and  as  she  stands  before  the  mirror  she 
steals  an  occasional  glance  at  her  crowning  glory,  which 
is  this  afternoon  arranged  with  far  more  care  than  usual  \ 
not  for  any  particular  reason,  but  because  she  had  a  fancy 
that  it  should  be  so. 

They  were  going  to  visit  Grassy  Spring,  a  handsome 
country  seat,  whose  grounds  lay  contiguous  to  those  of 
Collingwood,  and  whose  walls  were  in  winter  plainly  dis- 
cernible from  the  windows  of  the  upper  rooms.  It  had 
recently  been  purchased  and  fitted  up  somewhat  after  the 
style  of  Collingwood,  and  its  owner  was  expected  to  take 
possession  in  a  few  days.  Edith's  heart  always  beat  fast- 
er when  she  heard  his  name,  for  Arthur  St.  Claire  was 
one  of  the  links  of  the  past  which  .still  lingered  in  her 
remembrance.  She  had  never  seen  him  since  they  parted 
in  Albany,  and  after  his  leaving  college  she  lost  sight  of 
him  entirely.  Latterly,  however,  she  had  heard  from 
Grace,  who  knew  but  little  more  of  him  than  herself, 
that  he  was  coming  into  their  very  neighborhood ;  that 
he  had  purchased  Grassy  Spring,  and  was  to  keep  a  kind 
of  bachelor's  hall,  inasmuch  as  he  had  no  wife,  nor  yet  a 
prospect  of  any.  So  much  Edith  knew  and  no  mire. 
She  did  not  dare  to  speak  of  Nina,  for  remembering  her 
solemn  promise,  she  had  never  breathed  that  name  to  any 
living  being.  But  the  picture  in  the  glass,  as  she  3Ver 
termed  it,  was  not  forgotten,  and  the  deep  interest  sho  felt 
in  Grassy  Spring  was  owing,  in  a  great  measure  ;  o  the 
fact  that  Nina  was  in  her  mind  intimately  associate!  with 


WOMANHOOD.  71 

the  place.  Sooner  or  latei  she  should  meet  her  there,  she 
was  sure  ;  should  see  those  golden  curls  again,  and  look 
into  those  soft  blue  eyes,  whose  peculiar  expression  she 
remembered  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  since  they  first 
met  her  view. 

"  It  is  strange  your  cousin  never  married  ;  ho  must,  by 
this  time,  be  nearly  twenty-seven,"  she  said  to  Grace, 
thinking  the  while  of  Nina,  and  carelessly  adjusting  the 
jaunty  hat  upon  her  head. 

"  I  think  so  too,"  returned  Grace.  "When  quite  young 
he  was  very  fond  of  the  ladies,  but  I  am  told  that  he  now 
utterly  ignores  female  society.  Indeed,  in  his  last  letter 
to  me,  he  states  distinctly  that  he  wishes  for  no  company 
except  occasional  calls  in  a  friendly  way." 

"Been  disappointed,  probably,"  suggested  Edith,  still 
thinking  of  Nina,  and  wondering  if  Arthur  did  love  her 
BO  very  much  as  to  put  faith  in  no  one  because  of  her 
treachery. 

"  It  may  be,"  said  Grace ;  "  and  if  so,  isn't  it  a  little  queer 
that  he  and  Mr.  Harrington  should  live  so  near  each  other ; 
both  so  eccentric ;  both  so  handsome  and  rich  ;  both  been 
disappointed ;  and  both  so  desirable  as  husbands  ?  " 

"  Disappointed,  Mrs.  Atherton  !  Has  Mr.  Harrington 
been  disappointed  ?  "  and  the  rich  bloom  on  Edith's  cheek 
deepened  to  a  scarlet  hue,  which  Grace  did  not  fail  to 
notice. 

Her  friendship  for  Edith  Hastings  had  been  a  plant  of 
sluggish  growth,  for  she  could  not,  at  once,  bring  herself 
to  treat  as  an  equal  one  whom  she  formerly  held  as  a  ser- 
vant, but  time  and  circumstances  had  softened  her  haugh- 
ty pride,  while  Edith's  growing  popularity,  both  in  the 
\  illage  and  at  Collingwood,  awakened  in  her  a  deep  inter- 
est for  the  young  girl,  who,  meeting  her  advances  more 
than  half  the  way,  compelled  her  at  last  to  surrender,  and 
the  two  were  no  was  warm  fiiends  as  individuals  well  can 
be  when  there  is  between  them  so  great  a  disparity  of 


72  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

yeais  and  so  vast  a  difference  in  disposition.  In  Grace's 
Keaitthc  olden  love  for  Richard  had  not  died  out,  and 
hitherto,  it  had  been  some  consolation  to  believe  that  no 
other  ear  would  ever  listen  to  the  words  of  love,  to 
remember  which  continually  would  assuredly  drive  her 
mad.  But  matters  now  were  changed.  Day  by  day, 
week  by  week,  month  by  month,  and  year  by  year,  a  roso 
had  been  unfolding  itself  at  Collingwood,  and  with  every 
opening  petal  had  grown  more  and  more  precious  to  the 
blind  man,  until  more  than  one  crone  foretold  the  end ;  and 
Grace  Atherton,  grown  fonder  of  gossip  than  she  was 
wont  to  be,  listened  to  the  tale,  and  watched,  and  wonder- 
ed, ?nd  wept,  and  still  caressed  and  loved  the  bright,  beau- 
tiful girl,  whom  she  dreaded  as  a  powerful  rival.  This  it 
was  which  prompted  her  to  speak  of  Richard's  disappoint- 
ment; and  when  she  saw  the  effect  produced  upon  Edith, 
it  eriboldened  her  to  go  on,  and  tell  how,  years  and  years 
ago,  when  Richard  Harrington  first  went  to  Europe,  he 
had  sued  for  the  hand  of  a  young  girl  whom  he  met  there, 
and  who,  while  loving  him  dearly,  shrank  from  walking 
in  bis  shadow,  and  gave  herself  to  another. 

w  I  must  not  tell  you  the  name  of  this  faithless  girl," 
said  Grace.  "  It  is  sufficient  that  her  refusal  made  Rich- 
ard gloomy,  eccentric  and  misanthropical;  in  short,  it 
nearly  ruined  him." 

"My  curse  be  on  the  woman's  head  who  wrought  this 
ruin,  then,"  said  Edith,  her  black  eyes  flashing  with  some- 
thing of  their  former  fire. 

She  had  forgotten  the  scene  in  the  kitchen  of  Brier  Hill 
when  Rachel  whispered  to  her  that  Grace  Atherton  was 
[n  love,  and  she  had  now  no  suspicion  that  the  calm,  white- 
laced  woman  sitting  there  before  her  was  the  being  she 
would  curse.  Neither  was  her  emotion  caused,  as  Grace 
imagined,  by  any  dread  lest  the  early  love  of  Richard 
Harrington  should  stand  betweer  herself  and  him.  The 
thought  that  she  could  be  his  wife  had  never  crossed  her 


WOMANHOOD.  73 

brain,  and  her  feelings  were  those  of  indignation  toward 
a  person  w-lio  could  thus  cruelly  deceive  a  man  as  noble 
and  good  as  Richard,  and  of  pity  for  him  who  had  been 
so  deceived. 

•UI  will  love  him  all  the  more  and  be  the  kinder  to  him 
for  this  vile  creature's  desertion,"  she  thought,  as  she  beat 
the  floor  nervously  with  the  little  prunella  gaiter,  and  thia 
was  all  the  good  Grace  Atherton  had  achieved. 

Edith  had  cursed  her  to  her  face,  and  with  a  sigh  audi 
ble  only  to  herself  she  arose  and  said  laughingly,  "  It's 
time  we  were  off,  and  you've  certainly  admired  that  figure 
in  the  glass  long  enough.    What  do  you  think  of  your 
self,  any  Avay  ?  " 

"  Why,"  returned  Edith,  in  the  same  light,  bantering 
tone,  "  I  think  I'm  rather  jolie,  as  I  used  to  say.  I  won- 
der where  I  picked  up  that  word.  Victor  says  I  must 
have  had  a  French  nurse,  but  I'm  sure  I  was  too  poor  for 
that.  I  wish  I  knew  where  I  did  come  from  and  who  I 
am.  It's  terrible,  this  uncertainty  as  to  one's  birth.  1 
may  be  marrying  my  brother  one  of  these  days,  who 
knows  ?  " 

"  See  rather  that  you  do  not  marry  your  father,"  retort- 
ed Grace,  following  Edith  as  she  tripped  down  the  stairs 
and  down  the  walk,  whipping  the  tufts  of  box  as  she  went, 
and  answering  to  Grace  who  asked  if  she  did  not  some- 
times find  her  duties  irksome  at  Collingwood.  "Never, 
never.  The  links  of  my  chains  are  all  made  of  love 
and  so  they  do  not  chafe.  Then,  too,  when  I  remem- 
ber what  Richard  has  done  for  me  and  how  few  sources 
of  happiness  he  has,  I  am  willing  to  give  my  whole 
life  to  him,  if  need  be.  Why,  Mrs.  Atherton,  you  can't 
imagine  how  his  dark  features  light  up  with  joy,  when 
on  his  return  from  riding  or  from  transacting  business 
he  hears  me  in  the  hall,  and  knows  that  I  am  there  to 
meet  him,"  and  Edith's  bright  face  sparkled  and  glowed 
as  she  thought  how  often  the  blind  man  had  blessed  her 
4 


74  DABKNESS   ASTD   DAYLIGHT. 

with  his  sightless  but  speaking  eyes,  when  she  gave  np 
some  darling  project  which  would  take  her  from  his  side 
and  stayed  to  cheer  his  solitude. 

They  had  mounted  their  horses  by  this  time,  and  at 
the  speed  which  characterized  Edith's  riding,  dashed  down 
the  road  and  struck  into  the  woods,  the  shortest  route  to 
Grassy  Spring.  With  the  exception  of  Collingwood, 
Grassy  Spring  was  the  handsomest  country  seat  for  milea 
around,  and  thinking,  as  she  continually  did,  of  Nina, 
Edith  rather  gave  it  the  preference  as  she  passed  slowly 
through  the  grounds  and  drew  near  to  the  building. 
Grace  had  seen  the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Johnson,  a  talkative 
old  lady,  who,  big  with  the  importance  of  her  office, 
showed  them  over  the  house,  pointing  out  this  elegant 
piece  of  furniture  and  that  handsome  room  with  quite  as 
much  satisfaction  as  if  it  had  all  belonged  to  herself. 

In  the  third  story,  and  only  accessible  by  two  flights 
of  stairs  leading  from  Arthur's  suite  of  rooms,  was  a  large 
square  apartment,  the  door  of  which  Mrs.  Johnson  un- 
locked with  a  mysterious  shake  of  the  head,  saying  to  the 
ladies,  "The  Lord,  only  knows  what  this  place  is  for. 
Mr.  St.  Claire  must  have  fixed  it  himself,  for  I  found  it 
locked  tighter  than  a  drum,  but  I  accidentally  found  on 
the  but'ry  shelf  a  rusty  old  key,  that  fits  it  to  a  T.  I've 
been  in  here  once  and  bein'  you're  his  kin,"  nodding  to 
Grace,  "  and  t'other  one  is  with  you,  it  can't  do  an  atom 
of  harm  for  you  to  go.  He's  took  more  pains  with  thia 
chamber  than  with  all  the  rest,  and  when  I  asked  what 
'twas  for,  he  said  it  was  his  "  den,"  where  he  could  h'de  if 
lie  wanted  to." 

"  Don't  go,"  whispered  Edith,  pulling  at  Grace's  dress. 
M  Mr.  St.  Claire  might  not  like  it." 

But  Grace  felt  no  such  scruples,  and  was  already  across 
the  threshold,  leaving  Edith  by  the  door. 

u  It's  as  bad  to  look  in  as  to  go  in,"  thought  Edith,  and 
conquering  her  curiosity  with  a  mighty  effort,  she  walked 


WOMANHOOD.  75 

resolutely  down  stairs,  having  seen  nothing  save  £hat  the 
carpet  was  of  the  richest  velvet  and  that  the  windows 
had  across  them  slender  iron  bars,  rather  ornamental  than 
otherwise,  and  so  arranged  as  to  exclude  neither  light  nor 
air.  ^ 

Grace,  on  the  contrary,  examined  the  apartment  thor- 
oughly, thinking  Mrs.  Johnson  right  when  she  said  that 
more  pains  had  been  taken  with  this  room  than  with  all  the 
others.  The  furniture  was  of  the  most  expensive  and  ele- 
gant kind.  Handsome  rosewood  easy-chairs  and  sofa? 
covered  with  rich  satin  damask,  the  color  and  pattern  cor 
responding  with  the  carpet  and  curtains.  Ottomans,  di- 
vans and  footstools  were  scattered  about  —  pictures  and 
miiTors  adorned  the  walls,  while  in  one  comer,  covered 
with  a  misty  veil  of  lace,  hung  the  portrait  of  a  female  in 
the  full,  rich  bloom  of  womanhood,  her  light  chestnut 
curls  falling  about  her  uncovered  neck,  and  her  dreamy 
eyes  of  blue  having  in  them  an  expression  much  like  that 
which  Edith  had  once  observed  in  Nina's  peculiar  eyes. 
The  dress  was  quite  old-fashioned,  indicating  that  the  pic- 
ture must  have  been  taken  long  ago,  and  while  Grace  gaz- 
ed upon  it  her  wonder  grew  as  to  whose  it  was  and  whence 
it  came. 

"  Look  at  the  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  touching 
Grace's  elbow,  she  directed  her  attention  to  a  side  recess, 
hidden  from  view  by  drapery  of  exquisite  lace,  and  con- 
taining a  single  bed,  which  might  have  been  intended  for 
an  angel,  so  pure  and  white  it  looked  with  its  snowy  cov- 
ering. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  asked  Grace,  growing  more 
and  more  bewildered,  while  Mrs.  Johnson  replied  in  her 
favorite  mode  of  speech. 

"  The  Lord  only  knows  —  looks  as  if  he  was  going  to 
make  it  a  prison  for  some  princess  ;  but  here's  the  queerest 
thing  of  all,"  and  she  thumped  upon  a  massive  door,  which 
was  locked  and  barred,  and  beyond  which  her  prying  eye* 
bad  never  looked 


76  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Over  the  door  was  a  ventilator,  and  Grace,  quite  as  cu 
rious  as  Mrs.  Johnson,  suggested  that  a  chair  or  table  be 
brought,  upon  which  she,  baing  taller  than  her  compan- 
ion, might  stand  and  possibly  obtain  a  view. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Johnson,  as  Grace,  on 
tip-toe,  peered  into  what  seemed  to  be  a  solitary  cell,  void 
of  furniture  of  every  kind,  save  a  little  cot,  corresponding 
in  size  with  the  fairy  bed  in  the  recess,  but  in  naught  else 
resembling  it,  for  its  coverings  were  of  the  coarsest, 
strongest  materials,  and  the  pillows  scanty  and  small. 

Acting  from  a  sudden  impulse,  Grace  determined  not  to 
tell  Mrs.  Johnson  what  she  saw,  and  stepping  down  from 
the  table,  which  she  quickly  rolled  back  to  its  place,  she 
said, 

"  It's  nothing  but  a  closet,  where,  I  dare  say,  Mr.  St. 
Claire  will  keep  his  clothes  when  he  occupies  his  den. 
You  must  not  let  any  one  else  in  here,  for  Arthur  might 
be  offended." 

Mrs.  Johnson  promised  obedience,  and  turning  the  rus- 
ty key,  followed  her  visitor  down  the  two  long  flights  of 
stairs,  she,  returning  to  her  duties,  while  Grace  went  to 
the  pleasant  library,  where,  with  her  hat  and  whip  upon 
the  floor,  Edith  sat  reading  the  book  she  had  ventured  to 
take  from  the  well-filled  shelves,  and  in  which  she  had 
been  so  absorbed  as  not  to  hear  the  slight  rustling  in  the 
adjoining  room,  where  a  young  man  was  standing  in  the 
enclosure  of  the  deep  bay  window,  and  gazing  intently  at 
her.  He  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Johnson's  daughter  that 
Borne  ladies  were  going  over  the  house,  and  not  caring  to 
meet  them,  he  stepped  into  the  recess  of  the  window  just 
as  Edith  entered  the  library.  As  the  eye  of  the  stranger 
fell  upon  her,  he  came  near  uttering  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  that  anything  so  graceful,  so  queenly,  and  \\ithal 
BO  wondrously  beautiful,  should  be  found  in  Shannon  dale, 
which,  with  his  city  ideas  still  clinging  to  him,  seemed 
like  an  out-of-the-way  place,  where  the  girls  were  buxom, 


WOMANHOOD.  77 

good-natured  and  hearty,  just  as  he  remembered  Kitty 
Maynard  to  have  been,  and  not  at  all  like  this  creature  of 
rare  loveliness  sitting  there  before  him,  her  head  inclined 
gracefully  to  the  volume  she  was  reading,  and  showing  to 
good  advantage  her  magnificent  hair. 

"  Who  can  she  be  ?  "  he  thought,  and  a  thrill  of  un 
wonted  admiration  ran  through  his  veins  as  Edith  raised 
for  a  moment  her  large  eyes  of  midnight  blackness,  and 
from  his  hiding-place  he  saw  how  soft  and  mild  they  were 
in  their  expression.  "  Can  Grace  have  spirited  to  her  re- 
treat some  fair  nymph  for  company?  Hark!  I  hear  her 
voice,  and  now  for  the  solution  of  the  mystery." 

Standing  back  a  little  further,  so  as  to  escape  observa- 
tion, the  young  man  waited  till  Grace  Atherton  came 
near. 

"  Here  yoii  are,"  she  said,  "  poring  over  a  book  as  usual. 
1  should  suppose  you'd  had  enough  of  that  to  do  in  read- 
ing to  Mr.  Harrington  —  German  Philosophy,  too !  Will 
wonders  never  cease  ?  Arthur  was  right,  I  declare,  when 
he  dubbed  you  Metaphysics!" 

"  Edith  Hastings !  "  The  young  man  said  it  beneath  his 
breath,  while  he  involuntarily  made  a  motion  forward. 

"  Can  it  be  possible,  and  yet  now  that  I  know  it,  I  see 
the  little  black-eyed  elf  in  every  feature.  Well  may  the 
blind  man  be  proud  of  his  protege*.  She  might  grace  the 
saloons  of  Versailles,  and  rival  the  Empress  herself! " 

Thus  far  he  had  soliloquised,  when  something  Grace 
was  saying  caught  his  ear  and  chained  his  attention  at 
once. 

"  Oh,  Edith,"  she  began,  "  you  don't  know  what  you 
iost  by  being  over  squeamish.  Such  a  perfect  jewel-box 
of  a  room,  with  the  tiniest  single  bed  of  solid  mahogany  I 
Isn't  it  queer  that  Arthur  should  have  locked  it  up,  and 
wm't  it  fortunate  for  us  that  Mrs.  Johnson  found  that  rus« 
ty  old  key  which  must  have  originally  belonged  to  the 
door  of  the  Den,  as  she  says  he  calls  it  ?  " 


78  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

Anxiously  the  young  man  awaited  Edith's  answei,  hi* 
face  aglow  with  indignation  and  his  eyes  flashing  with  an 
ger. 

"  Fortunate  for  you,  perhaps,"  returned  Edith,  tying  or 
her  riding-hat,  "but  I  wouldn't  have  gone  in  for  any. 
thing." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Grace,  walking  into  the  hall. 

"Because,"  said  Edith,- "Mr.  St.  Claire  evidently  did  not 
wish  any  one  to  go  in,  and  I  think  Mrs.  Johnson  was 
wrong  in  opening  the  door." 

"  What  a  little  Puritan  it  is ! "  returned  Grace,  playfully 
caressing  the  rosy  cheeks  of  Edith,  who  had  now  joined 
her  in  the  hall.  "  Arthur  never  will  know,  for  I  certain- 
ly shall  not  tell  either  him  or  any  one,  and  I  gave  Mrs. 
Johnson  some  very  wholesome  advice  upon  that  subject. 
There  she  is  now  in  the  back-yard.  If  you  like,  we'll  go 
round  and  give  her  a  double  charge." 

The  young  man  saw  them  as  they  turned  the  corner  of 
the  building,  and  gliding  from  his  post,  he  hurried  up  the 
stairs  and  entering  the  Den,  locked  the  door,  and  throw- 
ing himself  upon  the  sofa,  groaned  aloud,  while  the  drops 
of  perspiration  oozed  out  upon  his  forehead,  and  stood 
thickly  about  his  lips.  Then  his  mood  changed,  and  pac- 
ing the  floor  he  uttered  invectives  against  the  meddlesome 
Mrs.  Johnson,  who,  by  this  one  act,  had  proved  that  she 
could  not  be  trusted.  Consequently  she  must  not  remain 
longer  at  Grassy  Spring,  and  while  in  the  yard  below  Mrs. 
Johnson  was  promising  Grace  "  to  be  as  still  as  the  dead," 
Arthur  St.  Claire  was  planning  her  dismissal.  This  done, 
and  his  future  course  decided  upon,  the  indignant  young 
man  felt  better,  and  began  again  to  think  of  Edith  Has- 
tings, whom  he  admired  for  her  honorable  conduct  in  re- 
fusing to  enter  a  place  where  she  had  reason  to  think  she 
was  not  wanted. 

"  Noble,  high-principled  girl,"  he  said.  "  I'm  glad  I  told 
Mr.  Harrington  what  I  did  before  seeing  her,  Otherwise 


EDITH    AT    HOME  79 

he  might  have  suspected  that  her  beauty  had  something 
to  do  with  my  offer,  and  so  be  jealous  lest  I  had  designs 
upon  his  singing-bird,  as  he  called  her.  But  alas,  neither 
beauty,  nor  grace,  nor  purity  can  now  avail  with  me,  mis- 
erable wretch  that  I  am,"  and  again  that  piteous  moan,  as 
of  a  soul  punished  before  its  time,  was  heard  in  the  silent 
room. 

But  hark,  what  sound  is  that,  which,  stealing  through 
the  iron-latticed  windows,  drowns  the  echo  of  that  moan, 
and  makes  the  young  man  listen  ?  It  is  Edith  Hastings 
singing  one  of  her  wild  songs,  and  as  the  full  rich  melody 
of  her  wonderful  voice  falls  upon  his  ear,  Arthur  St. 
Claire  bows  his  head  upon  his  hands  and  weeps,  for  the 
music  carries  him  back  to  the  long  ago  when  he  had  no 
terrible  secret  haunting  eveiy  hour,  but  was  as  light- 
hearted  as  the  maiden  whom,  as  she  gallops  away  on  her 
swift-footed  Arabian,  he  looks  after,  with  wistful  eyes, 
watching  her  until  the  sweep  of  her  long  riding-skirt  and 
the  waving  of  her  graceful  plumes  disappear  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  dim  woods,  where  night  is  beginning  to 
fal^  Slowly,  sadly,  he  turns  from  the  window  —  merrily, 
swiftly,  the  riders  dash  along,  and  just  as  the  clock  strikes 
six,  their  panting  steeds  pause  at  the  entrance  to  Colling 
wood. 


CHAPTER  X. 


It  was  too  late  for  Grace  to  call,  and  bidding  her  com- 
panion  good-bye,  she  galloped  down  the  hill,  while  Edith, 
in  a  meditative  mood,  suffered  her  favorite  Bedouin  to 
walk  leisurely  up  the  carriage  road  which  led  to  the  real 
of  the  house. 


80  DABK  CiTESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  Victor  Dupres ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  a  tall  figure  emerg 
ed  from  the  open  door  and  came  forward  to  meet  her 
u  Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"From  New  York,"  he  replied,  bowing  very  low, 
"Will  Mademoiselle  alight?"  and  taking  the  little  foot 
fiom  out  the  shoe  he  lifted  her  carefully  from  the  saddle, 

"  Is  he  here  ?  "  she  asked,  and  Victor  replied, 

"  Certainement;  and  has  brought  home  a  fresh  recruit 
of  the  blues,  too,  judging  from  the  length  and  color  of 
his  face." 

"Why  did  he  goto  New  York?"  interrupted  Edith, 
who  had  puzzled  her  brain  not  a  little  with  regard  to  the 
business  which  had  taken  Richard  so  suddenly  from  home. 

"  As  true  as  I  live  I  don't  know,"  was  Victor's  reply. 
4  For  once  he's  kept  dark  even  to  me,  scouring  all  the 
alleys,  and  lanes,  and  poor  houses  in  the  city,  leaving  me  at 
the  hotel,  and  taking  with  him  some  of  those  men  with  brass 
buttons  on  their  coats.  One  day  when  he  came  back  he 
acted  as  if  he  were  crazy  and  I  saw  the  great  teai-s  drop 
on  the  table  over  which  he  was  leaning,  then  when  I 
asked  'if  he'd  heard  bad  news,'  he  answered,  'No,  joyful 
news.  I'm  perfectly  happy  now.  I'm  ready  to  go  home,' 
and  he  did  seem  happy,  until  we  drove  up  to  the  gate  and 
you  didn't  come  to  meet  him.  'Where's  Edith?'  he 
asked,  and  when  Mrs.  Matson  said  you  were  out,  his  fore- 
head began  to  tie  itself  up  in  knots,  just  as  it  does  when 
he  is  displeased.  It's  my  opinion,  Miss  Edith,  that  you 
humor  him  altogether  too  much.  You  are  tied  to  him  as 
closely  as  a  mother  to  her  baby." 

Edith  sighed,  not  because  she  felt  the  bands  to  whic.h 
Victor  had  alluded,  but  because  she  reproached  herself 
for  not  having  been  there  to  welcome  the  blind  man  home 
when  she  knew  how  much  he  thought  of  these  little 
attentions. 

M  I'll  make  amends  though,  now,"  she  said,  and  remem- 
bering the  story  of  Jhis  disappointment,  her  heart  swelled 


EDITH   AT   HOMB.  81 

with  a  fresh  feeling  of  pity  for  the  helpless  Richard,  who, 
sitting  before  the  blazing  fire  in  the  library,  did  not  hea* 
the  light  step  coming  so  softly  toward  him. 

All  the  way  from  the  station,  and  indeed  all  the  way 
from  New  York,  he  had  pictured  to  himself  Edith's  sylph- 
like  form  running  down  the  steps  to  meet  him ;  had  fels 
h  ;r  warm  hands  in  his,  heard  her  sweet  voice  welcoming 
him  home  again,  and  the  world  around  him  was  filled  with 
daylight,  for  Edith  was  the  sun  which  shone  upon  his 
darkness.  She  was  dearer  to  him  now,  if  possible,  than 
when  he  left  Collingwood,  for,  during  his  absence  he  had 
learned  that  which,  if  she  knew  it,  would  bind  her  to  him 
by  cords  of  gratitude  too  strong  to  be  lightly  broken. 
She  owed  everything  to  him,  and  he,  alas,  he  groaned 
•when  he  thought  what  he  owed  to  her,  but  he  loved  her 
all  the  same,  and  this  it  was  which  added  to  the  keenness 
of  his  disappointment  when  among  the  many  feet  which 
hastened  out  to  meet  him,  he  listened  for  hers  in  vain- 
He  knew  it  was  very  pleasant  in  his  little  library  whither 
Victor  led  him ;  very  pleasant  to  sit  in  his  accustomed 
chair,  and  feel  the  fire-light  shining  on  his  face,  but  there 
was  something  missing,  and  the  blue  veins  were  swelling 
on  his  forehead,  and  the  lines  deepening  about  his  mouth, 
when  a  pair  of  soft,  white  arms  were  wound  about  his 
neck,  two  soft  white  hands  patted  his  bearded  cheeks,  and 
a  voi«3e,  whose  every  tone  made  his  heart  throb  and  beat 
with  ecstasy,  murmured  in  his  ear, 

"  Dear  Mr.  Richard,  I  am  so  glad  you've  come  home, 
and  so  sorry  I  was  not  here  to  meet  you.  I  did  not 
expect  you  to-night.  Forgive  me,  won't  you?  There, 
let  m<?  smooth  the  ugly  wrinkles  away,  they  make  you 
.ook  so  cross  and  old,"  and  the  little  fingers  he  vainly 
tried  1  o  clasp,  wandered  caressingly  over  the  knit  brows, 
•while,  for  the  first  time  since  people  began  to  call  her  Mia« 
Hastings,  Edith's  lips  touched  his.  ,  t 

Nor  was  she  sorry  when  she  saw  how  beautiful  the  lover 


82  DAEKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

light  broke  all  over  the  dark,  stern  face,  irradiating  every 
feature,  and  giving  to  it  an  expression  almost  divine. 

"  Kiss  me  again,  Birdie,"  he  said.  "  It  is  not  often  you 
grant  me  such  a  treat,"  and  he  held  her  arms  about  his 
neck  until  she  pressed  her  lips  once  more  against  his  own. 

Then  he  released  her,  and  making  her  sit  down  beside 
him,  rested  his  hand  upon  her  shining  hair,  while  he  asked 
her  how  she  had  busied  herself  in  his  absence,  if  she  had 
missed  the  old  dark  cloud,  a  bit,  and  if  she  was  not  sorry 
to  have  him  back. 

He  knew  just  what  her  answer  would  be,  and  when  it  was 
given,  he  took  her  face  between  his  hands,  and  turning  it 
up  toward  him,  said,  "  I'd  give  all  Collingwood,  darling, 

just  to  look  once  into  your  eyes  and  see  if "  then, 

apparently  changing  his  mind,  he  added,  "  see  if  you  are 
pleased  with  what  I've  brought  you,  look ; "  and  taking 
from  his  pocket  a  square  box  he  displayed  to  her  view  an 
entire  set  of  beautiful  pearls.  "  I  wanted  to  buy  dia- 
monds, but  Victor  said  pearls  were  more  appropriate  for 
a  young  girl  like  you.  Are  they  becoming?"  and  he 
placed  some  of  them  amid  the  braids  of  her  dark  hair. 

Like  all  girls  of  seventeen,  Edith  was  in  raptures,  nor 
could  he  make  her  sit  still  beside  him  until,  divested  of 
her  riding  habit,  she  had  tried  the  efiect  of  the  delicate 
ornaments,  bracelets,  ear-rings,  necklace  and  all. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  like  them,"  he  said,  and  he  did  enjoy 
it  very  much,  sitting^  there  and  listening  to  her  as  she 
danced  about  the  room,  uttering  little  girlish  screams  of 
delight,  and  asking  Victor,  when  at  last  he  came  in  — 
M  if  she  wasn't  irresistible  ?  " 

Victor  felf  that  she  was,  and  in  his  polite  French  way 
bo  complimented  her,  until  Richard  bade  him  stop,  telling 
him  u  she  was  already  spoiled  with  flattery." 

The  pearls  being  laid  aside  and  Victor  gone,  Edith 
resumed  her  accustomed  seat  upon  a  stool  at  Richard's 
feet,  and  folding  both  hands  upon  his  knee,  looked  into 


EDITO    AT   HOME.  83 

his  face,  saying,  "  Well,  monsieur,  why  did  you  go  off  to 
New  York  so  suddenly  ?  I  think  you  might  tell  me  now 
unless  it's  something  I  ought  not  to  know." 

He  hesitated  a  moment  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  tell 
her  or  not ;  then  said  to  her  abruptly,  "  You've  heard, 
I  believe,  of  the  little  child  whom  I  saved  from  drowning  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Don't  you  know  I  told  yen 
once  how  I  used  to  worship  you  because  you  were  so 
brave.  I  remember,  too,  of  praying  every  night  in  my 
childish  way  that  you  might  some  day  find  the  little  girl." 

"Edith,  I  have  found  her,"  and  the  nervous  hands 
pressed  tenderly  upon  the  beautiful  head  almost  resting 
in  his  lap. 

"  Found  her ! "  and  Edith  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  large 
eyes  growing  larger,  but  having  in  them  no  shadow  of 
suspicion.  "  Where  did  you  find  her  ?  Where  is  she  now  ? 
What  is  her  name?  Why  didn't  you  bring  her  home?" 
and  out  of  breath  with  her  rapid  questioning,  Edith  sat 
down  again,  while  Richard  laughingly  replied,  "  Where 
shall  I  begin  to  answer  all  your  queries  ?  Shall  I  take 
them  in  order  ?  I  found  out  all  about  her  in  New  York." 

"  That  explains  your  scouring  the  alleys  and  lanes  as 
Victor  said  you  did,"  interrupted  Edith,  and  Richard 
rejoined  rather  sharply,  "What  does  he  know  about  it?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  returned  Edith,  anxious  to  shield 
Victor  from  his  master's  anger.  "  I  asked  him  what  you 
did  in  New  York,  and  he  told  me  that.  Go  on  —  what 
is  her  name?" 

"  Eloise  Temple.  Her  mother  was  a  Swede,  and  her 
father  an  American,  much  older  than  his  wife." 

"  Eloise — Eloise  —  Eloise." 

Edith  repeated  it  three  times. 

"  Where  have  I  heard  that  name  before  ?  Oh,  I  know. 
„  heard  Kitty  Maynard  telling  the  story  to  Mrs.  Atherton. 
Where  is  she,  did  you  say,  and  how  does  she  look?" 

is  with  the  family  who  adopted  her  as  their  own, 


84  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

for  her  mother  is  dead.  Eloise  is  an  orphan,  Edith,"  and 
again  the  broad  hand  touched  the  shining  hair,  pityingly 
this  time,  while  the  voice  which  spoke  of  the  mother  was 
sad  and  low. 

Suddenly  a  strange,  fanciful  idea  flashed  on  Edith's  mind, 
and  looking  into  Richard's  face  she  asked,  "How  old  ia 
Eloise?" 
'  M  Seventeen,  perhaps.    Possibly,  though,  she's  older.'' 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Harrington  —  how  old  are  you,  please  ? 
I'll  never  tell  as  long  as  I  live,  if  you  don't  want  me  to." 

She  knew  he  was  becoming  rather  sensitive  with  regard 
to  his  age,  but  she  thought  he  would  not  mind  Ju.r  know- 
ing, never  dreaming  that  she  of  all  others  was  the  one 
from  whom  he  would,  if  possible,  conceal  the  fact  that  he 
was  thirty-eight.  Still  hev  told  her  unreservedly,  asking 
her  the  while  if  she  did  not  consider  him  almost  her 
grandfather." 

"  Why,  no,"  she  answered  ;  "  you  don't  look  old  a  bit. 
You  haven't  a  single  grey  hair.  I  think  you  are  splendid, 
and  so  I'm.  sure  did  the  mother  of  Eloise }  didn't  she  ?  " 
and  the  roguish  black  eyes  looked  up  archly  into  the 
blind  man's  face. 

Remembering  what  Grace  had  said  of  his  love  affair  in 
Europe  many  years  since,  and  adding  to  that  the  evident 
interest  he  felt  in  little  Eloise  Temple,  the  case  was  clear 
to  her  as  daylight.  The  Swedish  maiden  was  the  girl  who 
jilted  Richard  Harrington,  and  hence  his  love  for  Eloise 
for  she  knew  he  did  love  her  from  his  manner  when  speak- 
ing of  her  and  the  pains  he  had  taken  to  find  her.  Ho 
had  not  answered  her  last  question  yet,  for  he  did  not  an 
derstand  its  drift,  and  when  at  last  he  spoke  he  said, 

"Mrs.  Temple  esteemed  me  highly,  I  believe;  and  I  aci 
mired  her  very  much.     She  had  the  sweetest  voice  I  evor 
heard,  not  even  excepting  yours,  which  is  something  like 
it." 

Edith  nodded  to  the  bright  face  on  the  mirror  oppo 


EDITH   AT    HOME.  86 

site,  and  the  bright  face  nodded  back  as  mucL  as  to  say, 
"  I  knew  'twas  so." 

"  Was  she  really  handsome,  this  Mrs.  Temple  ?  "  she 
asked,  anxious  to  know  how  Richard  Harrington's  early 
love  had  looked. 

Instinctively  the  hands  of  the  blind  man  met  togethel 
round  Edith's  graceful  neck,  as  he  told  her  how  beautiful 
that  Swedish  mother  was,  with  her  glossy,  raven  hair,  and 
her  large,  soft,  lustrous  eyes,  and  as  he  talked,  there  crept 
into  Edith's  heart  a  strange,  inexplicable  aifection  for  that 
fair  young  Swede,  who  Richard  said  was  not  as  happy 
with  her  father-husband  as  she  should  have  been,  and  wrho, 
emigrating  to  another  land,  had  died  of  a  homesick,  brok- 
en heart. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cursed  her  to-day,"  thought  Edith,  her 
tears  falling  fast  to  the  memory  of  the  lonely,  homesick 
woman,  the  mother  of  Eloise. 

"  Had  she  married  Richard,"  she  thought,  "  he  would 
not  now  be  sitting  here  in  his  blindness,  for  she  would 
be  with  him,  and  Eloise,  too,  or  some  one  very  much  like 
her.  I  wish  she  were  here  now,"  and  after  a  moment  she 
asked  why  he  had  not  brought  the  maiden  home  with 
him.-  " I  should  love  her  as  much  as  my  sister,"  she  said; 
"  and  you'd  be  happier  with  two  of  us,  wouldn't  you? " 

M  No,"  he  answered ;  "  one  young  girl  is  enough  for  any 
house.  I  couldn't  endure  two." 

"Then  I  ought  to  go  away,"  said  Edith  promptly,  her 
bosom  swelling  with  a  dread  lest  she  should  eventually 
have  to  go.  "Eloise  has  certainly  the  best  right  here. 
You  loved  her  mother,  you  know,  and  you'd  rather  have 
her  than  me,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

She  held  both  his  hands  now  within  her  own.  She 
bent  her  face  upon  them,  and  he  felt  her  tears  trickling 
through  his  fingers.  Surely  he  was  not  to  blame  if,  for- 
getting himself  for  the  moment,  he  wound  his  arms  abou* 
her  and  hugging  her  to  his  bosom,  told  her  that  of  all  the 


86  DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 

woild  she  was  the  one  he  most  wanted  there  at  Colling 
wood,  there  just  where  she  was  now,  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder,  her  cheek  against  his  own.  Once  she  felt  slight 
ly  startled,  his  words  were  so  fraught  with  tender  pas 
sion,  but  regarding  him  as  her  father,  or  at  least  her  elder 
brother,  she  could  not  believe  he  intended  addressing  hei 
*ave  as  his  sister  or  his  child,  and  releasing  herself  from 
his  embrace,  she  slid  back  upon  her  stool  and  said,  "  I'm 
glad  you're  willing  I  should  stay.  It  would  kill  me  to  go 
from  Collingwood  now.  I've  been  so  happy  here,  and 
found  in  you  so  kind  a  father? 

She  would  say  that  last  word,  and  she  did,  never  observ- 
ing that  Richard  frowned  slightly  as  if  it  were  to  him  an 
unwelcome  sound. 

Presently  Edith  went  on,  "  I  think,  though,  this  Eloise 
ought  to  come,  too,  no  matter  how  pleasant  a  home  she 
has.  It  is  her  duty  to  care  for  you  who  lost  your  sight 
for  her.  Were  I  in  her  place,  I  should  consider  no  sacri- 
fice too  great  to  atone  for  the  past.  I  would  do  every- 
thing in  the  world  you  asked  of  me,  and  then  not  half  re- 
pay you." 

"  Every  thing,  Edith  ?  Did  you  say  every  thing  ?  n 
and  it  would  seem  that  the  blind  eyes  had  for  once  torn 
away  their  veil,  so  lovingly  and  wistfully  they  rested  upon 
the  bowed  head  of  the  young  girl,  who,  without  looking 
up,  answered  back, 

"  Yes,  every  thing.    But  I'm  glad  I  am  not  this  Eloise." 

"  Why,  Edith,  why  ?  "  and  the  voice  which  asked  the 
question  was  mournful  in  its  tone. 

"  Because,  returned  Edith, "  I  should  not  care  to  be  un- 
der so  great  obligations  to  any  one.  The  burden  would 
be  oppressive.  I  should  be  all  the  while  wondering  what 
more  I  could  do,  while  you,  too,  would  be  afraid  that  the 
little  kindnesses  which  now  are  prompted  in  a  great  meas- 
ure by  love  would  be  rendered  from  a  sense  of  gratitude 
and  duty.  Wouldn't  it  be  so,  Mr.  Richard  ?  " 


EDITH    AT    HOME.  87 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  whispered.  You  are  right.  I  should  be 
jealous  that  what  my  heart  craved  as  love  would  be  only 
gratitude.  I  am  glad  you  suggested  this,  Edith ;  very, 
very  glad,  and  now  let  us  talk  no  more  of  Eloise." 

"Ah,  but  I  must,"  cried  Edith.  "There  are  so  many 
things  I  want  to  know,  and  you've  really  told  me  nothing. 
Had  she  brothers  or  sisters?  Tell  me  that,  please." 

"  There  was  a  half  sister,  I  believe,  but  she  is  dead," 
said  Richard.  "They  are  all  dead  but  this  girl.  She  is 
alive  and  happy,  and  sometime  I  will  tell  you  more  of  her, 
but  not  now.  I  am  sorry  I  told  you  what  I  have." 

"  So  am  I  if  I  can't  hear  the  whole,"  returned  Edith, 
beginning  to  pout. 

"  I  did  intend  to  tell  you  all  when  I  began,"  said  Rich- 
ard, "  but  I've  changed  my  mind,  and  Edith,  I  have  faith 
to  believe  you  will  not  repeat  to  any  one  our.  conversa- 
tion. Neither  must  you  tease  me  about  this  girl.  It  is 
not  altogether  an  agreeable  subject." 

Edith  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest,  and  knowing  how 
useless  it  would  be  to  question  him  further,  turned  hei 
back  upon  him  and  gazing  steadily  into  the  fire,  was  won« 
dering  what  made  him  so  queer,  when  by  way  of  divert- 
ing her  mind,  he  said,~  "  Did  Victor  tell  you  that  Mr.  St. 
Claire  came  with  us  all  the  way  from  New  York  ?  " 

"Mr.  St.  Claire,  no,"  and  Edith  brightened  at  once^ 
forgetting  all  about  Eloise  Temple.  "Why  then  didn't 
Mrs.  Atherton  and  I  see  him  ?  We  went  over  the  house 
this  afternoon.  It's  a  splendid  place,  most  as  handsome 
as  Collingwood." 

M  How  would  you  like  to  live  there  ?  "  asked  Richard, 
playfully.  "  One  of  the  proposed  conditions  on  which  I 
consented  to  receive  you,  was  that  when  Mr.  St.  Claire  had 
a  home  of  his  own  he  was  to  take  you  of  my  hands;  at 
least,  that  was  what  he  said,  standing  here  where  you  sit; 
and  on  my  way  from  New  York  he  reminded  me  of  it, 
inquiring  for  little  Metaphysics,  and  asking  if  I  were  ready 
to  part  with  her." 


88  DABKltESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

M  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  and  let  Eloise  come  ?  "  Edith 
asked,  pettishly,  and  Richard  replied, 

"  No,  Edith,  I  need  you  more  than  Arthur  ever  can, 
and  you'll  stay  with  me,  too,  stay  always,  won't  you  ? 
Promise  that  you  will." 

"  Of  course  I  shall,"  she  answered.  "  I'll  stay  until  I'm 
married,  as  I  suppose  I  shall  be  sometime ;  everybody  is." 

Richard  tried  to  be  satisfied  with  this  reply,  but  it  grat- 
ed harshly,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  shadow  deeper, 
darker  than  any  he  had  ever  known,  was  creeping  slowly 
over  him,  and  that  Arthur  St.  Claire's  was  the  presence 
which  brought  the  threatening  cloud.  He  knew  this  half 
jealous  feeling  was  unworthy  of  him,  and  with  a  mighty 
•  effort  he  shook  it  off,  and  saying  to  Edith,  calmly,  "  Mr.  St. 
Claire  asked  many  questions  concerning  you  and  your  at- 
tainments, and  when  I  spoke  of  your  passion  for  drawing, 
lamenting  that  since  Miss  Chapin's  departure,  there  was 
in  town  no  competent  instructor,  he  offered  to  be  your 
teacher,  provided  you  would  come  up  there  twice  a  week. 
He  is  a  vary  sensible  young  man,  for  when  I  hesitated  he 
guessed  at  once  that  I  was  revolving  the  propriety  of 
your  going  alone  to  the  house  of  a  bachelor,  where  there 
were  no  females  except  the  servants,  and  he  said  to  me, 
*  You  can  come  with  her,  if  you  like.' " 

"  So  it's  more  proper  for  a  young  lady  to  be  with  two 
gentlemen  than  with  one,  is  it  ?  "  and  Edith  laughed  mer- 
rily, at  the  same  time  asking  if  Richard  had  accepted  the 
offer. 

"  I  did,  provided  it  met  your  approbation,"  was  the  re- 
ply, and  as  Victor  just  then  appeared,  the  conversation 
for  the  present  ceased. 

But  neither  Eloise  nor  Arthur  left  the  minds  of  either 
Richard  or  Edith,  and  while  in  her  sleep  that  night  the ' 
latter  dreamed  of  the  gentle  Eloise,  who  called  her  sister, 
and  from  whom  Arthur  St.  Claire  strove  to  part  her,  the 
former  tossed  restlessly  upon  his  pillow,  moaning  to  hiu» 


MATTERS    AT    GRASSY    SPRING.  89 

self,  "  I  am  glad  I  did  not  tell  her.     She  must  answer  me 
for  love  and  not  foi  gratitude." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MATTERS   AT   GRASSY    SPRING. 

Tlit  next  morning  as  the  family  at  Collingwood  sat  at 
their  rather  late  breakfast  a  note  was  brought  to  Richard, 
who  immediately  handed  it  to  Edith.  Breaking  the  seal, 
and  glancing  at  the  name  at  the  end,  she  exclaimed,  "  It's 
from  Mr.  St.  Claire,  and  he  says, —  let  me  see : 

"  GRASSY  SPRING,  Oct.  18 — 

"Dear  Sir: — A  wholly  unexpected  event  makes  it 
necessary  for  me  to  be  absent  from  home  for  the  next  few 
weeks.  During  this  time  my  house  will  be  shut  up,  and 
I  shall  be  very  glad  if  in  her  daily  rides  Miss  Hastings 
will  occasionally  come  round  this  way  and  see  that  every 
thing  is  straight.  I  would  like  much  to  give  the  keys  into 
her  charge,  knowing  as  I  do  that  I  can  trust  her.  The  books 
in  my  library  are  at  her  disposal,  as  is  also  the  portfolio 
of  drawings,  which  I  will  leave  upon  the  writing  table. 

"When  I  return,  and  have  become  somewhat  domesti 
cated,  I  hope  to  have  her  for  my  pupil,  as  proposed  yester- 
day. Please  let  me  know  at  once  if  she  is  willing  to  take 
charge  of  my  keys. 

In  haste, 

ARTHUR  ST.  CIAIRE." 

u  WTiat  does  he  mean  ? "  asked  Edith,  as  she  fii  ished 
reading  thi«  note  aloud.  "  What  does  he  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

tf  Why,"  returned  Richard,  "He  is  to  shut  up  his  house, 
which,  being  brick,  will  naturally  become  damp,  and  I 
buppose  he  wishes  you  to  air  it  occasionally,  by  opening 
the  windows  and  letting  in  the  sunlight. 


90  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"Wishes  me,  in  short,  to  perform  a  servant's  duty," 
said  Edith,  haughtily.  "  Very  well,  I'll  do  it.  Perhaps  it 
will  pay  my  tuition  in  p*t;  who  knows?"  and  in  spite  of 
Richard's  remonstrances,  she  seized  a  pen  and  dashed  off 
the  following: 

*AlR.  ST  CLAIKB: 

"  Dear  Sir,  —  Miss  Hastings  accepts  the  great  honor  of 
looking  after  your  house,  and  will  see  that  nothing  gets 
mouldy  during  your  absence. 

"  In  haste, 

RICHARD  HARRINGTON, 
«  Per  Edith  Hastings." 

w  P.  S.  Will,  you  have  her  clean  it  before  you  return  ?  " 

"  Edith ! "  and  Richard's  voice  was  very  stern.  "  Arthur 
St.  Claire  never  intended  to  insult  you,  and  you  shall  not 
send  that  note.  Tear  it  up  at  once." 

Edith  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  while  her  eyes  flashed 
with  indignation,  but  she  had  been  too  long  accustomed 
to  obey  the  man,  who,  groping  his  way  to  her  side,  stood 
commandingly  before  her  to  resist  his  authority  now, 
and  mechanically  tearing  the  note  in  pieces,  she  tossed 
them  into  the  fire. 

"Victor,"  said  Richard,  wishing  to  spare  Edith  the 
mortification  of  writing  a  second  answer,  "  tell  the  man 
from  Grassy  Spring  that  ,Mr.  St.  Claire  can  leave  his 
keys  at  Collingwood." 

Victor  departed  with  the  message,  and  Edith,  some- 
what recovered  from  her  pet,  said, 

"  Isn't  it  queer,  though,  that  Mr.  St.  Claire  should  ask 
to  leave  his  keys  with  me  ?    One  would  suppose  he'd  trust* 
liis  cousin  to  rummage  his  goods  and  chattels  sooner  than 
a  stranger." 

"  He  has  his  reasons,  I  dare  say,  for  preferring  you," 
returned  Richard,  adding  that  he  himself  would  go  witfr 


MATTERS   AT   GRASSY   SPRING.  91 

her  some  day  to  Grassy  Spring,  and  assist  her  in  airing 
the  house. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  keys  of  Col- 
lingwood  were  delivered  to  Edith,  together  with  a  sealed 
note,  containing  a  single  line, 

"  The  broken  key  unlocks  the  Den." 

Had  Arthur  wished  to  puzzle  Edith  he  could  not  hue 
done  so  more  effectually  than  he  did  by  these  few  words. 

"  What  do  I  care,"  she  said,  "  which  unlocks  the  Den. 
I  certainly  should  not  cross  its  threshold  were  the  door 
left  wide  open.  What  does  he  mean  ?  "  and  she  was  still 
wondering  over  the  message  when  Grace  Atherton  was 
announced. 

As  she  grew  older  Grace  assumed  a  more  familiar, 
youthful  manner  than  had  characterized  her  early  woman- 
hood, and  now,  tossing  her  riding  hat  and  whip  upon  the 
bed,  she  sank  into  Edith's  easy  chair  and  began :  "  The 
funniest  thing  imaginable  has  happened  at  Grassy  Spring. 
His  Royal  Highness,  Lord  St.  Claire,  has  flown  into  a  vio- 
lent passion  with  Mrs.  Johnson  for  having  shown  us  into 
that  room." 

"  Shown  you,  you  mean.  I  didn't  go  in,"  interrupted 
Edith,  and  Grace  continued,  "Well,  shown  me,  then, 
though  I  think  you  might  at  least  share  in  the  disgrace.  I 
never  saw  Arthur  as  indignant  as  he  was  last  night  when 
he  called  on  me.  '  Women  were  curious,  prying  creatures, 
any  way,'  he  said,  '  and  he  had  no  faith  in  any  of  them."1 

"Did  he  say  so?"  asked  Edith,  and  Grace  replied, 
"  Well,  not  exactly  that.  He  did  make  a  few  exceptions, 
of  which  you  are  one.  Mrs.  Johnson  must  ha\e  told  him 
that  you  refused  to  enter.  What  harm  was  there,  any 
<sway,  and  what's  the  room  for?  I'm  beginning  to  grow 
curious.  Here,  he's  dismissed  Mrs.  Johnson  and  her 
daughter,  telling  her  if  he  could  not  trust  her  in  small 
matters  he  could  not  in  those  of  greater  importance,,  and 
the  good  soul  has  taken  the 'afternoon  express  for  Boston, 


92  DABKNESS   AlfD   DAYLIGHT. 

where  she  formerly  lived.  She  says  he  paid  her  threa 
months*  extra  wages,  so  he  was  liberal  in  that  respect ; 
but  the  strangest  part  of  all  is  that  he  is  going  to  Florida, 
where  he  has  some  claim  to  or  owns  a  plantation  of  ne- 
groes, and  he  intends  to  bring  a  whole  cargo  of  them  to 
Grassy  Spring — housekeeper,  cook,  chambermaid,  coach- 
man, gardener,  and  all.  Don't  you  think  he's  crazy  ?  " 

Edith  thought  the  facts  would  warrant  such  a  conclu- 
sion, and  Grace  went  on.  "I  offered  to  take  charge  of 
his  house,  telling  him  it  ought  not  to  be  shut  up  for  sever- 
al weeks,  but  he  declined  so  haughtily,  saying  he  should 
leave  the  keys  with  some  one  less  curious  than  myself 
and  asked  if  I  supposed  you  would  be  offended  if  he  offer- 
ed them  to  you.  I  told  him  no,  and  I. dare  say  he  will 
send  them  here,  if,  indeed,  he  has  not  already  done  so. 
Has  he?"  she  asked,  quickly,  as  she  saw  a  peculiar  smile 
on  Edith's  lip. 

"  Yes,"  Edith  answered,  feeling  the  while  so  glad  that 
Richard  had  prevented  her  from  sending  that  insulting 
note. 

She  knew  now  why  the  keys  were  given  to  her,  and  the 
fact  that  Arthur  St.  Claire  trusted  her  even  before  his  own 
cousin,  left  a  warm,  happy  spot  in  her  heart.  Upon  sec- 
ond thought  this  act  was  not  displeasing  to  Grace  herself. 
It  evinced  a  preference  in  Arthur  for  Edith  Hastings,  and 
on  her  way  home  she  busied  herself  in  building  castles  of 
the  future,  when  Edith,  as  the  wife  of  Arthur  and  mis- 
.tress  of  Grassy  Spring,  would  cease  to  be  her  rival.  As 
Grace  had  said,  Mrs.  Johnson  and  Rose,  her  daughter,  were 
dismissed,  the  house  was  shut  up,  the  owner  gone,  the 
keys  in  Edith's  possession,  and  for  many  days  the  leaves 
of  ciimson  and  of  gold  drifted  down  upon  the  walks  and 
lay  piled  beneath  the  windows  and  upon  the  marble  steps, 
where  they  rested  undisturbed,  save  when  the  evening 
wind  whirled  them  in  fantastic  circles  and  then  sent  them 
back  again  to  their  first  lodging  place. 


MATTERS    AT   GEASSY    SPKHTO.  93 

Occasionally  Edith,  on  her  spirited  Bedouin,  rode  elow- 
ly  by,  glancing  at  the  grounds  and  garden,  where  so  many 
flowers  were  blossoming  for  naught,  and  then  gazing  curi- 
ously at  the  latticed  windows  looking  out  toward  Colling 
wood.  She  knew  which  ones  they  were,  though  the  blinds 
were  closed  tightly  over  them,  and  she  wondered  if  the 
mystery  of  that  room  would  ever  be  revealed  to  her 
Once,  as  she  was  riding  by,  she  saw  a  stranger  standing 
upon  the  steps  of  the  front  door  and  pulling  vehemently 
at  the  silver  knob  which  brought  him  no  response.  Rein- 
ing Bedouin  at  the  gate  she  waited  until  the  gentleman, 
tired  of  ringing,  came  slowly  down  the  walk,  apparently 
absorbed  in  some  perplexing  thought.  He  did  not  see  her 
until  almost  upon  her,  when,  bowing  politely,  he  said,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Miss.  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  St. 
Claire's  to  be  found?" 

"  He  has  gone  to  Florida,"  she  answered,  "  and  will  not 
return  for  some  weeks." 

"Gone  to  Florida,  and  I  not  know  it!  That's  very 
queer,"  and  the  stranger  bit  his  lip  with  vexation. 

"Did  you  wish  particularly  to  see  him !  "  asked  Edith, 
and  he  replied, 

"  Yes,  a  friend  lies  very  sick  in  the  — "  ne  paused  a 
moment,  looked  searchingly  at  Edith,  and  added,  "in 
Worcester.  We  can  do  nothing  with  her,  and  I  have 
come  for  him." 

Edith  thought  of  Nina,  thought  of  the  Den,  thought 
of  every  thing,  except  that  the  man  seemed  waiting  for 
her  to  speak. 

"  Won't  be  home  for  some  weeks,"  he  said  at  last,  as 
she  continued  silent,  "And  you  don't  know  where  a  let* 
ter  would  reach  him  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  but  I  will  deliver  any  message  from  you  aa 
,  soon  as  he  returns." 

The  sti  anger  scrutinized  her  closely  a  second  time  era 
he  replied, 


94  DAEK1TESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  Tell  him  Griswold  has  been  here  and  wishes  him  to 
come  to  Worcester  at  once." 

Edith  was  mortal,  nay  more,  was  a  genuine  descendant 
of  mother  Eve,  and  with  a  feeling  akin  to  what  that  fair 
matron  must  have  felt  when  she  wondered  how  those  ap- 
ples did  taste,  she  said  to  the  man,  "Who  shall  I  say  ia 
sick  ?  " 

•  "  A  friend,"  was  the  laconic  reply,  as  he  walked  rapidly 
away,  muttering  to  himself,  "  A  pretty  scrape  St.  Claire  is 
getting  himself  into.  Poor  Arthur,  poor  Arthur." 

It  would  seem  that  Edith,  too,  was  imbued  with  some- 
thing of  the  spirit  which  prompted  him  to  say,  "  Poor 
Arthur,"  for  she  involuntarily  sighed,  and  casting  another 
glance  at  the  windows  of  the  den,  gave  loose  rein  to  Be- 
douin and  galloped  swiftly  down  the  road. 

The  next  morning  was  clear  and  bright,  and  as  Richard 
felt  the  bracing  air,  he  said  to  her,  "  We  will  visit  Grassy 
Spring  to-day.  It's  time  you  gave  it  a  little  air." 

The  carriage  was  accordingly  brought  out,  and  in  half 
an  hour's  time  Richard  and  Edith  were  treading  the  de- 
serted rooms,  into  which  they  let  the  warm  sunlight  by 
opening  wide  the  windows,  all  save  those  of  one  chamber. 
Edith  did  not  go  near  the  Den,  and  she  marvelled  that 
Arthur  should  have  given  her  its  key,  indicating  which  it 
was.  She  did  not  know  that  the  rather  peculiar  young 
man  had  lain  for  her  a  snare,  by  which  means  he  would 
surely  know  how  far  her  curiosity  had  led  her.  He  might 
have  spared  himself  the  trouble,  for  Edith  was  the  soul 
of  honor,  and  nothing  could  have  induced  her  to  cross  the 
proscribed  threshold." 

u  It's  very  pleasant  here,  isn't  it  ?  "  Richard  asked,  as 
they  went  from  one  room  to  another,  and  he  felt  the  soft 
carpets  yield  to  his  tread. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered ;  "  but  not  as  pleasant  as  Colling- 
wood.  I  like  my  own  home  best,"  and  she  looked  into 
his  face  in  time  to  catch  the  expression  she  loved  so  well 


MATTERS    AT   GRASSY   SPRING.  95 

—  an  expression  of  trusting,  childlike  happiness,  touching 
to  behold  in  a  strong  man. 

He  liked  to  know  that  Edith  was  contented  with  Col- 
lingwood ;  contented  with  him ;  and  he  hoped  it  would 
be  so  always.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  he  had 
guffeied  every  fibre  of  his  heart  to  twine  and  intertwine 
themselves  around  her,  only  to  be  one  day  broken  and 
cast  bleeding  at  his  feet.  But  somehow,  here  at  Grassy 
Spring,  in  the  home  of  Arthur  St.  Claire,  he  felt  oppress- 
ed with  a  dread  lest  this  thing  should  be ;  and  to  Edith, 
when  she  asked  what  made  him  so  pale,  he  said, 

"  It's  close  in  here,  I  think.  Let's  hurry  out  into  the 
open  air." 

She  led  him  to  an  iron  chair  beneath  a  forest  maple, 
and  leaving  him  there  alone  went  back  to  close  the  win- 
dows she  had  opened.  One  of  those  in  the  drawing-room 
resisted  all  her  efforts  for  a  time,  but  came  down  at  last 
with  a  bang,  causing  her  to  start,  and  hit  her  foot  against 
a  frame,  which  she  had  not  before  observed,  but  which 
she  now  saw  was  a  portrait  standing  in  the  dark  corner 
with  its  face  against  the  wall. 

"Truly  there  can  be  no  harm 'in  looking  at  this,"  she 
thought,  and  turning  it  to  the  light  she  stepped  back  to 
examine  it. 

'  Twas  the  picture  of  a  black-eyed,  black-haired  child 

—  a  little  girl,  scarcely  three  years  old,  judging  from  the 
baby  face,  and  the  fat,  dimpled  hands  turning  so  earnestly 
the  leaves  of  a  picture  book.     One  tiny  foot  was  bare,  and 
one  encased  in  a  red  morocco  shoe. 

"  Dear,  dailing  baby,"  she  said  aloud,  feeling  an  irresis- 
tible desire  to  hug  the  little  creature  to  her  bosom, 
"Who  are  you,  baby?  Where  are  you  now?  and  how 
came  you  with  Mr.  St.  Claire  ?  " 

She  asked  these  questions  aloud,  and  was  answered  by 
Richard  calling  from  his  seat  beneath  the  maple  to  know 
why  she  tarried  so  long.  With  one  more  lingering  glance 


96  DAHKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

at  the  infant,  sue  locked  the  doors  and  hastened  out  to 
her  blind  charge.  On  three  or  four  other  occasions  she 
canie  alone  to  Grassy  Spring,  opening  the  doors  and  win- 
£  ows,  and  feasting  her  eyes  upon  the  beautiful  little  child. 
Kdith.  was  wonderfully  in  love  with  that  picture,  and 
many  a  theory  she  built  as  to  the  original.  Grace  had 
jOti  her  that  Arthur  had  no  sister,  and  this,  while  it  tend- 
ed to  deepen  the  mystery,  increased  her  interest. 

"  I'll  ask  him  about  her  when  he  gets  home,"  she  thought ; 
and  she  waited  anxiously  for  his  return,  which  occurred 
much  sooner  than  she  anticipated. 

It  was  a  cold,  raw  November  day,  and  the  rain  was 
beating1  against  the  windows  of  the  little  room  .she  called 
her  boudoir,  and  where  she  now  sat  sewing,  when  Victor, 
wiio  had  been  sent  to  Grassy  Spring  to  see  that  the  storin 
did  not  penetrate  the  western  blinds,  appeared  before  her, 
ejaculating,  "  Mon  Dieu,  Miss  Hastings.  What  do  you 
think  there  is  over  yonder  at  Grassy  Spring  ?  A  whole 
swarm  of  niggers,  and  Guinea  niggers  at  that,  I  do  be- 
lieve. Such  outlandish  specimens !  There  they  sit  bent 
up  double  with  the  cold  and  hovering  round  the  kitchen 
fire,  some  on  the  floor,  some  on  chairs,  and  one  has  actu- 
ally taken  the  tin  dish  pan  and  turned  it  bottom  side  up 
for  a  stool.  They  come  from  Florida,  they  say,  and  they 
sorter  long  to  Marsa  St.  Claire.  They  called  me  marsa, 
too,  and  when  Mr.  St.  Claire  asked  me  how  my  master 
and  young  lady  were,  the  old  she  one  who  sat  smoking  in 
the  corner,  with  a  turban  on  her  head  as  high  as  a  church 
Bteepie,  took  the  pipe  from  her  mouth  and  actually  swore. 

"Swore,  Victor!"  exclaimed  Edith,  who  had  listened 
in  amazement  to  his  story. 

u  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it  but  swearing ;  says  she, 
A  white  nigger,  Lor'-a-mighty,'  and  the  whole  bevy  of 
them  opened  their  ranks  for  me  to  sit  down  in  their  circle 
—  kind  of  a  fellow  feeling,  you  know,"  and  Victor  en^^v. 
ored  to  hide  the  shock  hir  pride  had  received  by  la 
ing  loudly  at  the  negroes'  mistake. 


MATTERS    AT   GRASSY    SPRING.  97 

a  How  did  you  get  in  ?  "  asked  Edith.  "  He  must  have 
been  there  before  you." 

"He  had  a  key  to  the  back  door,"  returned  Victor, 
"  and  I  gave  him  up  mine.  He  wants  you  to  send  the 
others.  Shall  I  take  them  over  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  no  —  I  will  go  myself,"  said  Edith,  remember- 
ing Mr.  Griswold,  from  Worcester,  and  the  message  she 
was  to  deliver. 

"  You  go  in  this  rain !  Mr.  Harrington  won't  let  you," 
said  Victor,  and  Edith  rejoined,  "  I  shan't  ask  him.  "I've 
been  out  in  worse  storms  than  this.  Bring  up  Bedouin." 

Victor  was  never  happier  than  when  obeying  Edith, 
and  in  an  inconceivably  short  space  of  time  Bedouin  stood 
at  the  back  piazza,  where  his  mistress  mounted  him  and 
rode  away.  It  was  not  until  she  had  left  the  Collingwood 
grounds  and  was  out  upon  the  main  road,  that  she  began 
to  feel  any  doubts  as  to  the  propriety  of  what  she  was 
doing.  She  had  not  seen  Arthur  St.  Claire  for  eight  years. 
She  must,  of  course,  introduce  herself,  and  would  he  not 
marvel  to  see  her  there  in  that  rain,  when  a  servant  could 
iiave  brought  the  keys  as  well.  And  the  message,  too  — 
Victor  might  have  delivered  that  had  she  been  willing  to 
trust  him  with  it,  but  she  was  not.  Arthur  St.  Claire  had 
a  secret  of  some  kind ;  Mr.  Griswold  was  concerned  in  it, 
and  it  was  to  guard  this  secret  from  all  curious  ears  that 
she  was  doing  what  she  was.  Having  thus  settled  the 
matter  to  her  mind,  Edith  rode  on,  unmindful  of  the  rain, 
which  had  partially  subsided,  but  still  dripped  from  her 
black  plumes  and  glanced  off  from  her  velvet  habit.  A 
slight  nervous  trepidation  seized  her,  however,  as  she  drew 
near  to  Grassy  Spring,  and  noticed  the  look  of  surprise 
with  which  a  stalwart  African,  standing  by  the  gate,  re- 
garded hex.  Riding  up  to  him  she  said,  good-naturedly, 
"  How  d'ye-,  uncle  ? "  having  learned  so  much  of  negro 
dialect  from  Rachel,  who  was  a  native  of  Georgia. 

Immediately  the  ivories  of  the  darkie  became  visible, 
6 


98  DARKNESS    AKD   DAYLIG.  ET. 

and  with  a  not  ungraceful  bow,  he  answered,  "Jest  tol 
able,  thankee ; "  while  his  eyes  wandered  up  the  road,  aa 
if  in  quest  of  something  they  evidently  did  not  find,  for 
bending  forward  he  looked  curiously  behind  Edith,  say- 
ing by  way  of  apology,  "  I'se  huntin'  for  yer  little  black 
boy ;  whar  is  he  ?  " 

"  Where's  who  ?  "  and  in  her  fright,  lest  some  one  of 
the  little  "  Guinea  niggers  "  about  whom  Victor  had  told 
her,  might  be  seated  behind  her,  Edith  leaped  with  one 
bound  from  the  saddle,  nearly  upsetting  the  young  man 
hastening  out  to  meet  her. 

Southern  bred  as  the  negro  was  he  could  not  conceive 
of  a  white  lady's  riding  without  an  escort,  and  failing  to 
see  said  escort,  he  fancied  it  must  be  some  diminutive 
child  perched  upon  the  horse,  and  was  looking  to  find 
him,  feeling  naturally  curious  to  know  how  the  negroes 
of  Yankee  land  differed  from  those  of  Florida.  All  this 
Edith  understood  afterward,  but  she  was  too  much  ex- 
cited now  to  think  of  any  thing  except  that  she  had  pro- 
bably made  herself  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  Arthur 
St.  Claire,  who  adroitly  rescued  her  from  a  fall  in  the 
mud,  by  catching  her  about  the  waist  and  clasping  one 
of  her  hands. 

"Miss  Hastings,  I  believe,"  he  said,  when  he  saw  that 
she  had  regained  her  equilibrium,  "  This  is  a  pleasure  I 
hardly  expected  in  this  storm, — but  come  in.  You  are 
drenched  with  rain ; "  and  still  holding  her  hand,  he  led 
her  into  the  library,  where  a  cheerful  fire  was  blazing. 

Drawing  a  chair  before  it  he  made  her  sit  down,  while 
he  untied  and  removed  her  hat,  brushing  the  drops  of 
rain  from  her  hair,  and  doing  it  in  so  quiet,  familiar,  and 
withal  so  womanly  a  manner  that  Edith  began  to  feel 
quite  at  home  with  him,  and  to  think  she  had  not  done 
BO  foolish  a  thing,  after  all,  in  coming  there.  When  sure 
she  was  comfortable,  he  drew  a  chair  opposite  to  her,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  they  met,  she  had  a  chance  to  seq 


MATTERS    AT   GRASSY    SPRING.  99 

what  changes  eight  years  had  wrought  in  one  she  thought 
so  handsome  as  a  youth.  He  was  larger,  more  fully  de- 
veloped than  when  she  parted  from  him  in  Albany,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  he  were  taller,  too.  He  was  certainly 
manlier  in  his  appearance,  and  the  incipient  mustache  at 
which  her  nose  was  once  contemptuously  elevated,  was 
now  a  rich,  brown  beard,  adding,  as  some  would  think,  to 
the  beauty  of  his  face,  the  pride  of  his  barber,  and  the 
envy  of  his  Isss  fortunate  comrades.  He  was  a  remarka 
bly  fine  looking  man,  handsomer  even  than  Richard  Har- 
rington, inasmuch  as  he  had  not  about  him  the  air  of  help- 
lessness which  characterized  the  blind  man.  The  same 
old  mischievous  twinkle  lurked  in  the  soft  brown  eyes, 
and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  curved  just  as  they  used  to 
do.  But  his  smile  was  not  as  frequent  or  as  joyous  as  of 
old,  while  on  his  brow  there  was  a  shadow  resting  —  an 
expression  of  sad  disquiet,  as  if  thus  early  he  had  drank 
deeply  from  the  cup  of  sorrow.  Amid  his  wavy  hair  a 
line  of  silver  was  now  and  then  discernible,  and  Edith 
thought  how  much  faster  he  had  grown  old  than  Richard 
Harrington.  And  well  he  might,  for  Richard,  in  his 
blindness,  was  happier  far  than  Arthur  St.  Claire,  blessed 
with  health,  and  riches,  and  eyesight,  and  youth.  He  had 
no  secret  eating  to  his  very  heart's  core,  and  with  every 
succeeding  year  magnifying  itself  into  a  greater  evil  than 
it  really  was,  as  an  error  concealed  is  sure  to  do.  Besides 
that,  Richard  had  Edith,  while  Arthur,  alas,  pooi  Arthur, 
he  had  worse  than  nothing ;  and  as  he  looked  across  the 
hearth  to  where  Edith  sat,  he  ceased  to  wonder  that  one 
who  for  eight  years  had  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  her 
presence,  should  be  as  young,  as  vigorous  and  happy  as 
Richard  had  appeared  to  him.  But  he  must  not  think 
of  this.  He  professed  to  be  a  woman-hater,  he  who,  in 
his  early  boyhood,  had  counted  his  conquests  by  scores  • 
and  even  if  he  were  not,  beautiful  Edith  Hastings  could 
never  be  aught  to  him ;  and  he  must  not  suffer  himself 


100  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

for  a  single  moment  to  think  how  beautiful  she  w&s,  still 
he  could  not  help  looking  at  her,  and  not  a  movement  of 
her  hand  or  a  bend  of  her  head  escaped  him.  But  so 
skillfully  did  he  manage  that  the  deluded  girl  fancied  he 
never  once  glanced  at  her,  while  he  expressed  to  her  his 
gratitude  for  having  taken  so  good  care  of  his  house. 

"  There  is  one  room,  however,  you  did  not  open,"  and 
the  eyes  of  brown  met  now  the  eyes  of  black,  but  were 
quickly  withdrawn,  as  he  continued,  "I  mean  the  one  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  leading  from  my  private  sitting- 
room." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Edith,  a  suspicion  of  the 
truth  flashing  upon  her.  "  Did  Blue  Beard  lay  a  snare  in 
which  to  catch  Fatima  ?  " 

'  "  He  did,"  Arthur  answered,  "  but  was  nearly  as  certain 
then  as  now  that  she  would  not  fall  into  it.  Miss  Hast- 
ings, it  gives  me  more  pleasure  than  I  can  well  express  to 
find  one  female  who  is  worthy  to  be  trusted  —  who  has 
no  curiosity." 

"But  I  have  a  heap  of  curiosity,"  returned  Edith, 
laughingly.  "  I'm  half  crazy  to  know  what  that  room  is 
for  and  why  you  are  so  particular  about  it." 

"  Then  you  deserve  more  credit  than  I  have  given  you," 
he  replied,  a  dark  shadow  stealing  over  his  handsome  face. 

Edith  was  about  to  ask  him  of  the  portrait  in  the  draw- 
ing room,  when  he  prevented  her  by  making  some  playful 
allusion  to  the  circumstances  of  their  first  acquaintance. 

"  I  began  to  think  you  had  forgotten  me,"  said  Edil  h, 
u  though  I  knew  you  could  not  well  forget  the  theft  un- 
justly  charged  to  me." 

She  hoped  he  would  now  speak  of  Nina,  but  he  did 
rot,  and  as  she  for  the  first  time  remembered  Mr.  Gris- 
wold,  she  said,  after  a  moment's  pause, 

**  I  came  near  forgetting  my  principal  errand  here.  I 
could  have  sent  yovir  keys,  but  I  would  rather  delivei 
Mr.  Griswold's  message  myself." 


MATTERS   AT   GRASSY    SPRING.  101 

She  expected  Arthur  to  start,  but  she  was  not  prepared 
for  him  to  spring  from  his  chair  as  suddenly  as  he  did. 

"  Mr.  Griswold ! "  he  repeated.  "  Where  did  you  see 
him  ?  Has  he  been  here  ?  What  did  he  say  ?  Tell  me, 
Edith  —  Miss  Hastings  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  tell  me  hia 
errand." 

He  stood  close  to  her  now,  and  his  eyes  did  not  leave 
her  face  for  an  instant  while  she  repeated  the  particulars 
of  her  interview  with  the  stranger. 

fa  And  this  is  all  —  you've  told  me  all  that  passed  be- 
tween you  ?  "  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  all,"  she  answered,  pitying  him,  he  looked  so 
frightened,  so  disturbed. 

Consulting  his  watch,  he  continued,  "  There's  tune,  I 
see,  if  I  am  expeditious.  I  must  take  the  next  train  east, 
though  I  would  so  much  rather  stay  and  talk  with  you. 
I  shall  see  you  again,  Miss  Hastings.  You'll  come  often 
to  Grassy  Spring,  won't  you  ?  I  need  the  sight  of  a  face 
like  yours  to  keep  me  from  going  mad? 

He  wrung  her  hand  and  stepped  into  the  hall  just  aa 
one  of  the  black  women  he  had  brought  from  Florida  ap- 
peared. 

« Aunt  Phillis,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  speak  with  you," 
and  going  with  her  to  the  extremity  of  the  hall,  they  con- 
versed together  in  low,  earnest  tones,  as  if  talking  of 
some  great  sorrow  in  which  both  were  interested. 

Once  Edith  heard  Aunt  Phillis  say,  "Blessed  lamb, 
that  I've  done  toted  so  many  times  in  these  old  arms. 
Go,  Marser  Arthur ;  never  you  mind  old  Phillis,  she'll  get 
on  somehow.  Mebby  the  young  lady  in  thar  kin  show 
me  the  things  and  tell  me  the  names  of  yer  Yankee 
gimcracks." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  will,"  returned  Arthur,  adding 
something  in  a  whisper  which  Edith  could  not  hear. 

A  moment  more  and  Arthur  passed  the  door,  equipped 
with  overcoat  and  umbrella,  and  she  heard  his  rapid  steps 


102  DARKNESS    AND  DAYLIGHT. 

upon  the  back  piazza  as  he  went  towards  the  carriage 
house.  Aunt  Phillis  now  re-entered  the  library,  curtesy- 
ing  low  to  Edith,  who  saw  upon  her  old  black  face  the< 
trace  of  recent  tears. 

"Is Mr.  St.  Claire's  friend  very  sick?"  Edith  ventured 
to  ask,  and  instantly  the  round  bright  eyes  shot  at  her  a 
glance  of  alarm,  while  the  negress  replied, 

"  Dunno,  misses.  He  keeps  his  'fare  mostly  to  hisself, 
and  Phillis  has  done  larnt  not  to  pry." 

Thus  rebuked,  Edith  arose  and  began  to  tie  on  her  hat 
preparatory  to  leaving. 

"  Come  in  dis  way  a  minute,  Miss,"  said  Phillis. 
u  We're  from  Floridy,  and  dunno  more'n  the  dead  what 
to  do  in  such  a  shiny  kitchen  as  Marster  St.  Claire  done 
keeps." 

Edith  followed  her  to  the  kitchen,  in  which  she  found 
several  dusky  forms  crouched  before  the  fir?,  and  gazing 
about  them  with  a  wondering  look.  To  Edith  they  were 
exceedingly  polite,  and  taking  a  seat  in  their  midst  she 
soon  learned  from  a  loquacious  old  lady,  who  seemed  to 
be  superannuated,  that  "they  were  all  one  family,  she 
being  the  grandmother,  Ike  and  Phillis  the  father  and 
mother,  and  'tothers  the  children.  Were  all  Ber-nards" 
she  said,  "  case  that  was  ole  marster's  name,  but  now  I 
dunno  who  we  does  'long  to.  Some  says  to  Marster 
St.  Claire  and  some  says  to  Miss " 

"  Mother ! n  and  Phillis  bustled  up  to  the  old  lady,  who, 
uttering  a  loud  outcry,  exclaimed, 

"  The  Lord,  Phillis ;  you  needn't  done  trod  on  my  fetch- 
ed corns.  I  warn't  a  gwine  to  tell,"  and  she  loudly  be- 
wailed her  aching  foot,  encased  in  a  shoe  of  most  won- 
derful make. 

When  the  pain  had  partially  subsided,  the  talkative 
Judy  continued, 

"  There  wasn't  no  sense,  so  I  tole  'em,  in  'totin'  us  way 
off  here  in  the  dead  o'  winter.  I'se  kotched  a  misery  in 


MATTERS    AT   GRASSY    8HETNG.  103 

my  back,  and  got  the  shivers  all  over  me.  Pse  too  old 
any  way  to  leave  my  cabin  thar  in  Floridy,  and  I'd  a  heap 
Bight  rather  of  stayed  and  died  on  de  old  plantation.  We 
has  good  times  thar,  me  and  Uncle  Abe  —  that's  an  old 
colored  gentleman  that  lives  jinin',  and  does  nothin',  just 
as  I  do.  He  lost  his  wife  nex  Christmas'll  be  a  year ;  and, 
bein'  lonesome  like,  he  used  to  come  over  o'  nights  to  talk 
about  her,  and  tell  how  mizzable  it  was  to  be  alone." 

"  You  are  a  widow,  I  presume,"  said  Edith,  her  black 
eyes  brimming  with  fun.  • 

"  Yes,  chile,  I'se  been  a  widdy  thirty  year,  an'  Uncle 
Abe  was  such  a  well-to-do  nigger,  a  trifle  shaky  in  the 
legs,  I  know;  but  it  don't  matter.  Marster  St.  Claire 
wouldn't  part  the  family,  he  said,  and  nothin'  to  do  but  I 
must  come.  Uncle  Abe's  cabin  was  comfable  enough, 
and  thar  was  a  hull  chest  of  Rhody's  things,  a  doin'  no 
body  no  good." 

Aunt  Judy  paused,  and  looked  into  the  fire  as  if  seeing 
there  images  of  the  absent  Abel,  while  Edith  regarded 
her  intently,  pressing  her  hands  twice  upon  her  forehead, 
as  if  trying  to  retain  a  confused,  blurred  idea  which  flit- 
ted across  her  mind. 

"Judy,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  it  seems  to  me  I  must  have 
Been  you  somewhere  before,  though  where,  I  dont  know." 

"  Like  enough,  honey,"  returned  Judy.  "  Your  voice 
sounds  mighty  nateral,  and  them  black  eyes  shine  an' 
glisten  like  some  oder  eyes  I  seen  somewhar.  Has  you 
been  in  Floridy,  chile  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  Edith ;  "  I  was  born  in  New  York  City, 
I  believe." 

"  Then  'taint  likely  we's  met  afore,"  said  Judy,  "  though 
you  do  grow  on  me  'mazin'ly.  You're  the  very  spawn  o* 
somebody.  Phillis,  who  does  the  young  lady  look  like?" 

Phillis,  who  had  been  rummaging  the  closets  and  cup- 
boards, now  came  forward,  and  scrutinizing  Edith's  fea- 
tures, said,  "  She  favors  Master  Ber-nard's  last  wife,  only 
she's  taller  and  plumper." 


104  DARKJSTESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

But  with  the  querulousness  of  old  age  Judy  scouted 
the  idea. 

"Reckoned  she  knowed  how  Marster  Bernard's  last 
wife  looked.  'Twan't  no  more  like  the  young  lady  than 
'twas  like  Uncle  Abe,"  and  with  her  mind  thus  brought 
back  to  Abel,  she  commenced  an  eulogy  upon  him,  to 
which  Edith  did  not  care  to  listen,  and  she  gladly  follow- 
ed Phillis  into  the  pantry,  explaining  to  her  the  use  of 
such  conveniences  as  she  did  not  fully  understand. 

"  Two  o'clock ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  heard  the  silver 
bell  from  the  library  clock.  "  Richard'll  think  I'm  lost," 
and  bidding  her  new  acquaintances  good  bye,  she  hurried 
to  the  gate,  having  first  given  orders  for  Bedouin  to  be 
brought  from  the  stable. 

"  Shan't  I  go  home  wid  you,  Miss  ?  "  asked  the  negro, 
who  held  the  pony;  "it's  hardly  fittin'  for  you  to  go 
alone." 

But  Edith  assured  him  she  was  not  afraid,  and  galloped 
swiftly  down  the  road,  while  the  negro  John  looked  ad- 
miringly after,  declaring  to  his  father,  who  joined  him, 
that  "  she  rode  mighty  well  for  a  Yankee  girl." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LESSONS. 

Arthur  St.  Claire  had  returned  from  Worcester,  but  U 
was  several  days  ere  he  presented  himself  at  Colling, 
wood ;  and  Edith  was  beginning  to  think  he  had  forgot- 
ten her  and  the  promised  drawing  lessons,  when  he  one 
evening  was  ushered  by  Victor  into  the  parlor,  where  she 
was  singing  to  Richard  his  favorite  songs.  He 'was  paler 
thaia  when  she  saw  him  before,  and  she  fancied  that  lie 


LESSONS.  105 

Bcemed  weary  and  worn,  as  if  sleep  and  himseif  had  been 
for  a  long  time  strangers. 

"  Did  you  leave  your  friend  better  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,  better,"  he  answered  hurriedly,  changing  the 
conversation  to  topics  evidently  more  agreeable. 

One  could  not  be  very  unhappy  in  Edith's  presence, 
She  possessed  so  much  life,  vivacity  and  vigor,  that  her 
companions  were  sure  to  become  more  or  less  imbued  with 
her  cheerful  spirit;  and  as  the  evening  advanced,  Arthur 
became  much  like  the  Arthur  of  Brier  Hill  memory,  and 
even  laughed  .aloud  on  several  occasions. 

"  I  wish  I  was  sure  of  finding  at  Grassy  Spring  some- 
body just  like  you,"  he  said  to  Edith  when  at  last  he 
arose  to  go.  "  You  have  driven  away  a  whole  army  of 
blues.  I  almost  believe  I'd  be  willing  to  be  blind,  if,  by 
that  means,  I  could  be  cared  for  as  Mr.  Harrington  is." 

"  And  crazy,  too  ? "  slily  interrupted  Edith,  who  was 
standing  near  him  as  he  leaned  against  the  marble  mantel. 

"No,  no  —  oh,  heavens,  no!  anything  but  that,"  and 
the  hand  he  placed  in  Edith's  shook  nervously,  but  soon 
grew  still  between  her  soft,  warm  palms. 

There  was  something  life-giving  in  Edith's  touch,  as 
well  as  soul-giving  in  her  presence,  and  standing  there 
with  his  cold,  nervous  hand  in  hers,  the  young  man  felt 
himself  grow  strong  again,  and  full  of  courage  to  hope 
for  a  happier  future  than  the  past  had  been.  He  knew 
she  could  not  share  the  future  with  him — but  he  would 
have  as  much  of  her  as  possible,  and  just  as  she  was  won- 
dering if  he  would  remember  the  lessons,  he  spoke  of  them 
and  asked  when  she  could  come. 

"  Just  when  Mr.  Harrington  thinks  best,"  she  replied, 
and  thus  appealed  to,  Richard,  guided  by  Edith's  voice, 
came  forward  and  joined  them. 

"  Any  time,"  he  said.  "  To  morrow,  if  you  like,"  adding 
that  he*  believed  he,  too,  was  to  be  always  present. 

Edith's  eyes  sought  those  of  Arthur,  reading  there  ft 
6* 


106  DABKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

reflection  of  her  own  secret  thoughts,  to  wit,  that  thre* 
would  be  one  too  many,  but  they  could  not  tell  him  so  and 
Arthur  responded  at  once,  "  Certainly,  I  shall  expect  you 
both,  say  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock ;  I  am  most  at  leisure 
then." 

The  next  morning,  at  the  appointed  time,  Richard  and 
Edith  appeared  at  Grassy  Spring,  where  they  found 
Arthur  waiting  for  them,  his  portfolio  upon  the  table,  and 
his  pencils  lying  near,  ready  to  be  used. 

"  I  am  afraid  you'll  find  it  tiresome,  Mr.  Harrington," 
he  said,  as  he  assigned  his  visitor  a  chair,  and  then  went 
back  to  Edith. 

"  I  shall  do  very  well,"  answered  Richard,  and  so  lie 
did  for  that  lesson,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  but  at  last,  in 
spite  of  his  assertion  to  the  contrary,  he  found  it  dull  busi- 
ness going  to  Grassy  Spring  twice  each  week,  and  sitting 
alone  with  nothing  to  occupy  his  mind,  except,  indeed,  to 
wonder  how  near  Arthur  was  to  Edith,  and  if  he  bent  over 
her  as  he  remembered  seeing  drawing  teachers  do  at 
school. 

Richard  was  getting  very  tired  of  it  —  very  weary  of 
listening  to  Arthur's  directions,  and  to  Edith's  merry  laughs 
at  her  awkward  blunders,  and  he  was  not  sorry  when  one 
lesson-day,  the  fifth  since  they  began,  Grace  Atherton's 
voice  was  heard  in  the  hall  without,  asking  for  admission. 
He  had  long  since  forgiven  Grace  for  jilting  him,  and 
they  we^e  the  best  of  friends ;  so  when  she  suggested 
their  going  into  the  adjoining  room,  where  it  was  pleas- 
anter  and  she  could  play  to  him  if  he  liked,  he  readily 
assented,  and  while  listening  to  her  lively  conversation 
and  fine  playing,  he  forgot  the  lapse  of  time,  and  was 
surprised  when  Edith  came  to  him  with  the  news  that  it 
was  12  o'clock. 

"Pray,  don't  go  yet,"  said  Arthur,  who  was  loth  to 
part  with  his  pupil.  "  You  surely  do  not  dine  till  three 
and  I  have  already  ordered  lunch.  Here  it  comes,"  and 


LESSONS.  107 

he  pointed  to  the  door  where  Phllis  stood,  bearing  a  Luge 
silver  salver,  on  which  were  wine  and  cake  and  fruit  oi 
various  kinds. 

"  Grapes,"  screamed  Edith,  as  she  saw  the  rich  purple 
clusters,  which  had  been  put  up  for  winter  use  by  poor, 
discarded  Mrs.  Johnson.  "  I  really  cannot  go  till  I  have 
some  of  them,"  and  as  there  was  no  alternative  Richard 
gat  down  to  wait  the  little  lady's  pleasure. 

He  did  not  care  for  lunch,  but  joined  in  the  conversa- 
tion,  which  turned  upon  matrimony. 

"  It  must  be  a  very  delightful  state,"  said  Edith,  "  pro- 
vided one  were  well  matched  and  loved  her  husband,  as 
I  am  sure  I  should  do." 

"Supposing  you  didn't  love  him,"  asked  Grace,  "but 
had  married  him  from  force  of  circumstances,  what  then?" 

"I'd  kill  him  and  the  circumstances  too,"  answered 
Edith.  "  Wouldn't  you,  Mr.  St.  Claire  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  tell,"  he  replied,  "  not  having  matrimony 
in  my  mind.  Z shall  never  many." 

"  Never  marry ! "  and  the  pang  at  Edith's  heart  was 
discernible  in  her  soft,  black  eyes,  turned  so  quickly  to- 
ward this  candidate  for  celibacy. 

"  How  long  since  you  came  to  that  decision  ?  "  asked 
Grace ;  and  in  tones  which  indicated  truth,  Arthur  re- 
plied, 

"  Several  years  at  least,  and  I  have  never  for  a  moment 
changed  my  mind." 

"Because  the  right  one  has  not  come,  perhaps,  put  in 
Richard,  growing  very  much  interested  in-the  conversa- 
tion. 

"  The  right  one  will  never  come,"  and  Arthur  spoke 
earnestly.  "  The  girl  does  not  live  who  can  ever  be  to  me 
a  wife,  were  she  graceful  as  a  fawn  and  beautiful  as  —  " 
he  glanced  at  Edith  as  if  he  would  call  her  name,  but 
added  instead  —  "  as  a  Hebe,  it  could  make  no  difference. 
.That  matter  is  fixed,  and  is  as  changeless  as  the  laws  of 
the  Medes  and  Persians." 


108  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

M I  am  sorry  for  you,  young  man,"  said  Richard,  whose 
face,  notwithstanding  this  assertion,  indicated  anything 
but  sorrow. 

He  could  now  trust  Edith  alone  at  Grassy  Spring — he 
need  not  always  be  bored  with  coming  there,  and  he  wag 
glad  Arthur  had  so  freely  expressed  his  sentiments,  as  it 
relieved  him  of  a  great  burden ;  so,  at  parting,  when  Ar- 
thur said  to  him  as  usual,  "  I'll  see  you  again  on  Friday," 
he  replied, 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  getting  so  worried  with  these  abom- 
inably tedious  lessons,  that  for  once  I'll  let  her  come 
alone." 

Alas,  poor,  deluded  Richard !  He  did  not  know  that  to 
attain  this  very  object,  Arthur  had  said  what  he  did.  It 
is  true,  he  meant  every  word  he  uttered.  Matrimony  and 
Edith  Hastings  must  not  be  thought  of  together.  That 
were  worse  than  madness,  and  his  better  judgment  warn- 
ed him  not  to  see  too  much  of  her  —  told  him  it  was  bet- 
ter far  to  have  that  sightless  man  beside  them  when  they 
met  together  in  a  relation  so  intimate  as  the  teacher  beara 
to  his  pupil.  But  Arthur  would  not  listen ;  Edith  was 
the  first  who"  for  years  had  really  touched  a  human  chord 
in  his  palsied  heart,  and  the  vibration  would  not  cease 
without  a  fiercer  struggle  than  he  cared  to  make.  It 
could  do  no  harm,  he  said.  He  had  been  so  unhappy  — 
was  so  unhappy  now.  Edith  would,  of  course,  be  Rich- 
ard's wife;  he  had  foreseen  that  from  the  very  first  —  had 
predicted  it  long  ago,  but  ere  the  sacrifice  was  made,  he 
was  surely  pardonable  if,  for  a  little  while,  he  gave  him- 
self to  the  bewildering  intoxication  of  basking  in  the  sun- 
shine of  her  eyes,  of  bending  so  near  to  her  that  he  could 
foel  her  fragrant  breath,  and  the  warm  glow  of  her  cheek, 
of  holding  those  little  hands  a  moment  in  his  own  after 
he  had  ceased  to  teach  the  fingers  how  to  guide  the  pen- 
oil. 

All  this  passed  in  rapid  review  before  his  mind  whil« 


LESSONS.  109 

his  lips  uttered  the  words  which  had  sc  delighted  Kich- 
ard,  and  when  he  saw  the  shadow  on  Edith's  face,  his 
poor,  aching  heart  throbbed  with  a  joy  as  wild  and  in 
tense  as  it  was  hopeless  and  insane.  This  was  Arthui 
St.  Claire  with  Edith  present,  but  with  Edith  gone,  he 
was  quite  another  man.  Eagerly  he  watched  her  till  she 
disappeared  from  view,  then  returning  to  the  library  he 
sat  down  where  she  had  sat  —  laid  his  bead  upon  the 
table  where  her  hands  had  lain,  and  cursed  himself 
for  daring  to  dream  of  love  in  connection  with  Edith  Has- 
tings. It  would  be  happiness  for  a  time,  he  knew,  to 
hang  upon  her  smile,  .to  watch  the  lights  and  shadows  of 
her  speaking  face,  to  look  into  her  eyes  —  those  clear, 
truthful  eyes  which  had  in  them  no  guile.  All  this  would 
be  perfect  bliss,  were  it  not  that  the  end  must  come  at 
last  —  the  terrible  end  —  remorse  bitterer  than  death  for 
him,  and  for  her  —  the  pure,  unsullied,  trusting  Edith  — 
ruin,  desolation,  and  madness,  it  might  be. 

"  Yes,  madness  !  "  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "  hateful  as  the 
word  may  sound."  And  he  gnashed  his  teeth  as  it  drop- 
ped from  between  them.  "  No,  Edith,  no.  Heaven  helping 
me,  I  will  not  subject  you  to  this  temptation.  I  will  not 
drag  you  down  with  me,  and  yet,  save  Griswold,  there 
lives  not  the  person  who  knows  my  secret.  May  be  he 
could  be  bought.  Oh,  the  maddening  thought.  Am  I  a 
demon  or  a  brute  ?  "  And  he  leaped  from  his  chair,  curs- 
ing himself  again  and  again  for  having  fallen  so  low  as  to 
dream  of  an  act  fraught  with  so  much  wrong  to  Edith, 
and  so  much  treachery  to  one  as  fair,  as  beautiful  as  she, 
and  far,  far  more  to  be  pitied. 

Arthur  St.  Claire  was,  at  heart,  a  noble,  upright,  hon- 
01  able  man,  and  sure,  at  last,  to  choose  the  right,  howev- 
er rugged  were  the  road.  For  years  he  had  groped  in  a 
darkness  deeper,  more  hopeless  than  that  which  enshroud- 
ed the  blind  man,  and  in  all  that  time  there  had  shone 
upon  his  pathway  not  a  single  ray  of  daylight.  The  past, 


110  DARKITESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

at  which  he  dared  not  look,  lay  behind  him  a  dreary 
waste,  and  the  black  future  stretched  out  before  him, 
years  on  years  it  might  be,  in  which  there  would  be  al 
ways  the  same  old  cankering  wound  festering  in  his  souL. 
He  could  not  forget  this  plague  spot.  He  never  had  for- 
gotten  it  for  a  single  moment  until  he  met  with  Edith 
I  fastings,  who  possessed  for  him  a  powerful  mesmeric 
charm,  causing  him  in  her  presence  to  forget  everything 
but  her.  This  fascination  was  sudden  but  not  less  pow- 
erful for  that.  Arthur's  was  an  impulsive  nature,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  known  Edith  all  his  life,  that 
she  was  a  part  of  his  very  being.  But  he  must  forget 
her  now,  she  must  not  come  there  any  more,  he  could  not 
resist  her  if  she  did ;  and  seizing  his  pen  he  dashed  off  a 
few  lines  to  the  effect  that,  for  certain  reasons,  the  draw- 
ing lessons  must  henceforth  be  discontinued. 

Arthur  thought  himself  very  strong  to  do  so  much,  but 
when  he  arose  to  ring  for  the  servant  who  was  to  take 
this  note  to  Collingwood,  his  courage  all  forsook  him. 
Why  need  he  cast  her  off  entirely  ?  Why  throw  away 
the  only  chance  for  happiness  there  was  left  to  him? 
'Twas  Arthur's  weaker  manhood  which  spoke,  and  he  lis- 
tened, for  Edith  Hastings  was  in  the  scale,  a  mighty, 
overwhelming  weight.  She  might  come  just  once  more, 
he  said,  and  his  heart  swelled  within  his  throat  as  he 
thought  of  being  alone  with  her,  no  jealous  Richard  hov- 
ering, near,  like  a  dark,  brooding  cloud,  his  blind  eyes 
shielding  her  from  harm  even  more  than  they  could  have 
done  had  they  been  imbued  with  sight.  The  next  time 
she  came,  the  restraint  would  be  removed.  She  would 
be  alone,  and  the  hot  blood  poured  swiftly  through  his 
veins  as  he  thought  how  for  one  brief  moment  he  would 
be  happy.  He  would  wind  his  arm  around  that  girlish 
waist,  where  no  other  manly  arm  save  that  of  Richard 
had  ever  been ;  he  would  hug  her  to  his  bosom,  where  no 
other  head  than  hers  could  ever  lie ;  he  would  imprint 


FRIDAY.  Ill 

one  burning  kiss  upon  her  lips ;  would  tell  her  how  dear 
she  was  to  him :  and  then  —  his  brain  reeled  and  grew 
dizzy  as  he  thought  that  then  he  must  bid  her  leave  him 
forever,  for  an  interview  like  that  must  not  be  repeated, 
But  for  once,  just  once,  he  would  taste  of  the  forbidden 
fruit,  and  so  the  good  angel  of  Arthur  St.  Claiie  wept 
over  the  wayward  man  and  then  flew  sadly  away$  leav« 
ing  him  to  revel  in  anticipations  of  what  the  next  Friday 
would  bring  him. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

FRIDAY. 

It  was  just  beginning  to  be  light  when  Edith  opened 
her  eyes,  and  lifting  up  her  head,  looked  about  the  room 
to  see  if  Lulu  had  been  in  to  make  her  fire.  She  always 
awoke  earlier  on  lesson  day,  so  as  to  have  a  good  long 
time  to  think,  and  now  as  she  counted  the  hours,  one,  two, 
three  and  a  half,  which  must  intervene  before  she  saw 
Arthur  St.  Claire  again,  she  hid  her  blushing  face  in  the 
pillow,  as  if  ashamed  to  let  the  gray  daylight  see  just 
how  happy  she  was.  These  lessons  had  become  the  most 
important  incidents  in  her  life,  and  this  morning  there  was 
good  cause  why  she  should  anticipate  the  interview.  She 
believed  Richard  was  not  going,  and  though  she  was  of 
course  very  sorry  to  leave  him  behind,  she  tried  hard  to 
be  reconciled,  succeeding  so  well  that  when  at  8  o'clock 
ghe  descended  to  the  breakfast  room,  Victor  asked  what 
made  her  look  so  unusually  bright  and  happy. 

"I  do^t  know,"  she  replied,  "unless  it  is  because  we 
are  going  to  ride,"  and  she  glanced  inquiringly  at  Richard, 
teating  himself  at  the  table. 

Victor  shrugged  his  shoulders.    He  knew  more  than 


112  DABKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Edith  thought  he  did,  and  waited  like  herself  for  Richard's 
answer.  Richard  had  intended  to  remain  at  home,  but 
it  seemed  that  Edith  expected  him  to  go,  by  her  saying 
toe,  and  rather  than  disappoint  her  he  began  to  think  seri- 
ously of  martyring  himself  again.  Something  like  this 
he  said,  adding  that  he  found  it  vastly  tedious,  but  ;va* 
willing  to  endure  it  for  Edith's  sake. 

"  Pardonnez  moi,  JMbnsieur"  said  Victor,  who  for  the 
sake  of  Edith,  would  sometimes  stretch  the  truth,  "  I  saw 
Mr.  Floyd  yesterday,  and  he  is  coming  here  this  morning 
to  talk  with  you  about  the  west  wood  lot  you  offered  for 
sale.  Hadn't  you  better  stay  home  for  once  and  let  Miss 
Edith  go  alone." 

Edith  gave  a  most  grateful  look  to  Victor,  who  had 
only  substituted  "  this  morning  "  for  "  some  time  to-day," 
the  latter  being  what  Mr.  Floyd  had  really  said. 

"  Perhaps  I  had,"  returned  Richard.  "  I  want  so  much 
to  sell  that  lot,  but  if  Edith " 

"  Never  mind  me,  Mr.  Harrington,"  she  cried ;  "  I  have 
not  been  on  Bedouin's  back  in  so  long  a  time  that  he  is 
getting  quite  unmanageable,  they  say,  and  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  discipline  him  this  morning;  the  roads  are 
quite  fine  for  winter,  are  they  not  Victor  ?  " 

"  Never  were  better,"  returned  the  Frenchman ;  smooth 
and  hard  as  a  rock.  You'll  enjoy  it  amazingly,  I  know. 
I'll  tell  Jake  not  to  get  out  the  carriage,"  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer  the  politic  Victor  left  the  room. 

Richard  had  many  misgivings  as  to  the  propriety  of 
letting  Edith  go  without  him,  and  he  was  several  times  on 
the  point  of  changing  his  mind,  but  Edith  did  not  give 
him  any  chance,  and  at  just  a  quarter  before  ten  she  came 
down  equipped  in  her  riding  habit,  and  asking  if  he  bad 
any  message  for  Mr.  St.  Claire. 

"None  in  particular,"  he  answered,  adding  that  she 
might  come  back  through  the  village  and  bring  the  mail. 

Once  on  the  back  of  Bedouin,  who  danced  for  a  few 


FRIDAY.  113 

momenta  like  a  playful  kitten,  Edith  felt  sure  she  was 
going  alone,  and  abandoning  herself  to  her  delight  she 
flew  down  the  carriage  road  at  a  terrific  speed,  which 
startled  even  Victor,  great  as  was  his  faith  in  his  young 
lady's  skill.  But  Edith  had  the  utmost  confidence  in 
Bedouin,  while  Bedouin  had  the  utmost  confidence  in 
Edith,  and  by  the  time  they  were  out  upon  the  main  road 
they  had  come  to  a  most  amicable  understanding. 

"  I  mean  to  gallop  round  to  the  office  now,"  thought 
Edith;  and  then  I  shall  not  be  obliged  to  hurry  away  from 
Grassy  Spring." 

Accordingly  Bedouin  was  turned  toward  the  village,  and 
in  an  inconceivably  short  space  of  time  she  stood  before 
the  door  of  the  post-office. 

"  Give  me  Mr.  Harrington's  mail,  please,"  Edith  said  to 
the  clerk  who  came  out  to  meet  her ;  "  and  —  and  Mr.  St. 
Claire's  too ,  I'm  going  up  there,  and  can  take  it  as  well 
as  not." 

The  cierk  withdrew,  and  soon  returned  with  papers  tor 
Richard,  and  a  letter  for  Arthur.  It  was  post-marked  at 
Worcester,  and  Edith  thought  of  Mr.  Griswold,  as  she 
thrust  it  into  her  pocket,  and  started  for  Grassy  Spring, 
where  Arthur  was  anxiously  awaiting  her.  Hastening 
out  to  meet  her,  he  held  her  hand  in  his,  while  he  led  her 
up  the  walk,  telling  her  by  his  manner,  if  by  nothing  else, 
how  glad  he  was  to  see  her. 

"  It  has  seemed  an  age  since  Tuesday,"  he  said.  u  I 
only  live  on  lesson-days.  I  wish  it  was  lesson-day 
always." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Edith,  impulsively,  repenting  her 
words  the  moment  she  met  the  peculiar  glance  of  Arthur's 
eyes. 

She  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  of  him,  and  half  wished 
Richard  was  there,  ftemembering  his  letter  at  last,  she 
gave  it  to  him,  explaining  how  she  came  by  it,  and  mar* 
veiling  at  the  sudden  whiteness  of  his  face. 


114  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  I  will  wait  till  she  is  gone,"  he  thought,  as  he  recog 
nized  Dr.  Griswold's  writing,  and  knew  well  what  it  was 
about.  "  I  won't  let  anything  mar  the  bliss  of  the  next 
two  hours,"  and  he  laid  it  upon  the  table. 

"  Ain't  you  going  to  read  it  ?  "  asked  Edith,  as  earnestly 
as  if  she  knew  the  contents  of  that  letter  would  save  her 
from  much  future  pain.  "  Read  it,"  she  persisted,  declar- 
ing, with  pretty  willfulness  that  she  would  not  touch  a 
pencil  until  he  complied  with  her  request. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  yield  then,"  he  said,  withdrawing 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  he  broke  the  seal  and 
read  —  once  — twice  —  three  times  —  lingering  longest 
over  the  sentences  which  we  subjoin. 

*  *  *  "  To-day,  fop  the  first  time  since  you  were  here, 
our  poor  little  girl  spoke  of  you  of  her  own  accord,  asking 
where  you  were  and  why  you  left  her  so  long  alone.  I 
really  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  take  her  home. 
She  is  generally  quiet  with  you,  and  latterly  she  has  a 
fancy  that  you  are  threatened  with  some  danger,  for  she 
keeps  whispering  to  herself,  '  Keep  Arthur  from  tempta- 
tion. Keep  him  from  temptation,  and  don't  let  any  harm 
come  to  little  Miggie?  Who  is  Miggie  ?  I  don't  think  I 
ever  heard  her  name  until  within  the  last  few  days."  *  *  * 

And  this  it  was  which  kept  Arthur  St.  Claire  from  fall- 
ing. Slowly  the  tears,  such  as  strong  men  only  shed, 
gathered  in  his  eyes  and  dropped  upon  the  paper.  Then 
his  pale  lips  moved,  and  he  whispered  sadly,  "  Heaven 
bless  you,  Nina,  poor  unfortunate  Nina.  Your  prayer 
shall  save  me,  and  henceforth  Edith  shall  be  to  me  just 
what  your  darling  Miggie  would  have  been  were  she 
living.  God  help  me  to  do  right,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
th  mght  of  Edith  Hastings,  and  remembered  how  weak 
he  was.  That  prayer  of  anguish  was  not  breathed  in  vain, 
and  when  the  words  were  uttered  he  felt  himself  grovring 
strong  again  —  strong  to  withstand  the  charms  of  the 
young  girl  waiting  impatiently  for  him  in  the  adjoining 
room. 


FBIDAY.  115 

There  were  many  things  she  meant  to  say  to  him  ja 
Richard's  absence.  She  would  ask  him  about  Nina,  and 
the  baby  picture  which  had  so  interested  her.  It  had 
disappeared  from  the  drawing  room  and  as  yet  she  bad 
found  no  good  opportunity  to  question  him  about  it,  bat 
she  would  do  so  to-day.  She  would  begin  at  once  so  is 
not  to  forget,  and  she  was  just  wondering  how  long  it 
took  a  man  to  read  a  letter,  when  he  came  in.  She  sa  w 
at  a  glance  that  something  had  affected  him,  and  knowing 
intuitively  that  it  was  not  the  time  for  idle  questionings, 
she  refrained  from  all  remark,  and  the  lesson  both  had  so 
much  anticipated,  proceeded  in  almost  unbroken  silence. 
It  was  very  dull  indeed,  she  thought,  not  half  so  nice  as 
when  Richard  was  there,  and  in  her  pet  at  Arthur's  cool 
ness  and  silence,  she  made  so  many  blunders  that  at  last 
throwing  pencil  and  paper,  across  the  room,  she  declared 
herself  too  stupid  for  any  thing. 

"  You,  too,  are  out  of  humor,"  she  said,  looking  archly 
into  Arthur's  face,  "  and  I  won't  stay  here  any  longer.  I 
mean  to  go  away  and  talk  with  Judy  about  Abel." 

So  saying,  she  ran  off  to  the  kitchen  where  she  was 
now  a  great  favorite,  and  sitting  down  at  Judy's  feet,  be- 
gan to  ask  her  of  Florida  and  Sunnybank,  her  former 
home. 

w  Tell  me  more  of  the  magnolias,"  she  said,  "  It  almost 
seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  seen'  those  beautiful  white 
blossoms  and  that  old  house  with  its  wide  hall." 

"Whar  was  you  raised?"  asked  Judy,  and  Edith 
replied, 

"  I  told  you  once,  in  New  York,  but  I  have  such  queer 
fancies,  as  if  I  had  lived  before  I  came  into  this  world.1* 

"  Jest,  the  way  Miss  Nina  used  to  go  on,"  muttered  the 
old  woman,  looking  steadily  into  the  fire. 

"*Nina ! "  and  Edith  started  quickly.  "  Did  you  know 
Nina,  Aunt  Judy?  Do  you  know  her  now?  Where  is  she? 
Who  is  she,  and  that  black-eyed  baby  in  the  frame  ?  Tell 
me  all  about  them." 


116  DARKNESS   ANT>   DAYLIGHT. 

"All  about  what?"  asked  Phillis,  suddenly  appealing 
and  casting  a  warning  glance  at  her  mother,  who  replied, 
"  'Bout  marster's  last  wife,  the  one  you  say  she  done 
favors."  Then,  in  an  aside  to  Edith,  she  added,  "  I  kin 
pull  de  wool  over  her  eyes.  Bimeby  mabby  I'll  done  tell 
you  how  that  ar  is  de  likeness  of  Miss  Nina's  half  sister 
what  is  dead,  and  'bout  Miss  Nina,  too,  the  sweetest,  most 
misfortinest  human  de  Lord  ever  bornd." 
-  "  She  isn't  a  great  ways  from  here,  is  she  ?  "  whispered 
Edith,  as  Phillis  bustled  into  the  pantry,  hurrying  back 
ere  Judy  could  more  than  shake  her  head  significantly. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Phillis,  won't  you  please  tell  Ike  to  bring 
up  Bedouin,"  Edith  said  coaxingly,  hoping  by  this  ruse  to 
get  rid  of  the  old  negress ;  but  Phillis  was  too  cunning, 
and  throwing  up  the  window  sash,  she  called  to  Ike, 
delivering  the  message. 

Edith,  however,  managed  slily  to  whisper,  "In  Wor- 
cester, isn't  she  ?  ".  while  Judy  as  slily  nodded  affirmative- 
ly, ere  Phillis'  sharp  eyes  were  turned  again  upon  them. 
Edith's  curiosity  concerning  the  mysterious  Nina  was 
thoroughly  roused,  and  determining  to  ferret  out  the 
whole  affair  by  dint  of  quizzing  Judith  whenever  an  op- 
portunity should  occur,  she  took  her  leave. 

"  Mother,"  said  Phillis,  the  moment  Edith  was  out  of 
hearing,  "  havn't  you  no  sense,  or  what  possessed  you  to 
talk  of  Miss  Nina  to  her?  Havn't  you  no  family  pride, 
and  has  you  done  forgot  that  Marster  Arthur  forbade  our 
talkin'  of  her  to  strangers  ?  " 

Old  Judy  at  first  received  the  rebuke  in  siler  ce,  then 
bridling  up  in  her  own  defense,  she  replied,  "Needn't  tell 
me  that  any  good  will  ever  come  out  o'  this  kiverin'  up 
an'  hidin',  and  keepin'  whist.  It'll  come  out  bimeby,  an 
then  folks'll  wonder  what  'twas  all  did  for.  Ole  marster 
didn't  act  so  by  Miss  Nina's  mother,  an'  I  believe  thar'a 
somethin'  behind,  some  carrying  on  that  we  don't  know ; 
but  it's  boun'  to  come  out  fust  or  last.  That  ar  Miss 


THE   MYSTERY   AT    GIUBSY    SPRING  117 

Edith  is  a  nice  trim  gal.  I  wish  to  goodness  Marster  Ar- 
thur'd  done  set  to  her.  I'd  like  her  for  a  mistress  mighty 
well.  I  really  b'lieve  he  has  a  hankerin'  notion  arter  her, 
too,  an'  it's  nater  that  he  should  have.  It's  better  for  the 
young  to  marry,  and  the  old,  too,  for  that  matter.  Pool 
Uncle  Abe !  Do  you  s'pose,  Phillis,  that  he  goes  over  o 
night?  to  A  ant  Diisey's  cabin  sen'  we've  come  away 
J^ilsey's  an  onery  nigger,  any  how,"  and  with  her  mind 
upon  Uncle  Abel,  and  her  possible  rival  Dilsey,  old  Judy 
forgot  Edith  Hastings,  who,  without  bidding  Arthur  good 
morning,  had  gallopped  home  to  Collingwood,  where  she 
found  poor,  deluded  Richard,  waiting  and  wondering  at 
the  non-appearance  of  Mr.  Floyd,  who  was  to  buy  his 
western  wood  lot. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   MYSTERY   AT   GRASSY   SPRING. 

For  several  weeks  longer  Edith  continued  taking  les- 
sons of  Arthur,  going  sometimes  with  Richard,  but  oftener 
alone,  and  feeling  always  that  a  change  had  gradually 
come  over  her  teacher.  He  was  as  kind  to  her  as  ever, 
took  quite  as  much  pains  with  her,  and  she  was  sensible 
of  a  greater  degree  of  improvement  than  had  marked  the 
days  when  she  trembled  every  time  he  touched  her  hands. 
6  till  there  was  a  change.  He  did  not  bend  over  her  now 
as  he  used  to  do ;  did  not  lay  his  arm  across  the  back  oi 
her  chair,  letting  it  sometimes  fall  by  accident  upon  her 
EhouMers;  did  not  look  into  her  eyes  with  a  glance  which 
made  her  blush  and  turn  away ;  in  short,  he  did  not  look 
at  her  at  all,  if  he  could  help  it,  and  in  this  very  self-denial 
lay  his  strength.  He  was  waging  a  mighty  battle  with 
bimsel£  and  inch  by  inch  he  was  gaining  the  victory,  for 


118  .      DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

victory  it  would  be  when  he  brought  himself  to  think  of 
Edith  Hastings  without  a  pang  —  to  listen  to  her  voice 
and  look  into  her  face  without  a  feeling  that  she  must  be 
his.  He  could  not  do  this  yet,  but  he  kept  himself  from 
telling  her  of  his  love  by  assuming  a  reserved,  studied 
manner,  which  led  her  at  last  to  think  he  might  be  angry, 
and  one  day,  toward  the  first  of  March,  when  he  had 
been  more  than  usually  silent,  she  asked  him  abruptly  how 
she  had  offended,  her  soft  eyes  filling  with  tears  as  she 
expressed  her  sorrow  if  by  any  thoughtless  act  she  had 
caused  him  pain. 

"You  could  not  offend  me,  Edith,"  he  said;  "that 
would  be  impossible,  and  if  I  am  sometimes  cold  and  ab- 
stracted, it  is  because  I  have  just  cause  for  being  so.  I 
am  very  unhappy,  Edith,  and  your  visits  here  to  me  are 
like  oases  to  the  weary  traveller.  Were  it  not  for  you  I 
should  wish  to  die ;  and  yet,  strange  as  itt  may  seem,  I 
have  prayed  to  die  oftener  since  I  knew  you  as  you  now 
are  than  I  ever  did  before.  I  committed  a  fatal  error 
once  and  it  has  embittered  my  whole  existence.  It  was 
early  in  life,  too,  before  I  ever  saw  you,  Edith." 

"Why,  Mr.  St.  Claire,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  were 
nothing  but  a  boy  when  you  came  to  Brier  Hill." 

"Yes,  a  boy,"  he  exclaimed,  "or  I  had  never  done 
what- 1  did ;  but  it  cannot  be  helped,  and  I  must  abide 
the  consequences.  Now  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  I 
am  going  away  to-morrow,  and  you  need  not  come  again 
until  I  send  for  you ;  but  whatever  occurs,  don't  think  I 
am  offended." 

She  could  not  think  so  when  she  met  the  olden  look 
she  had  missed  so  long,  and  wondering  where  he  (ould 
be  going,  she  arose  to  take  her  leave.  He  went  with  hei 
to  the  door,  and  wrung  her  hand  nervously,  bidding  her 
in  heart  a  final  farewell,  for  when  they  met  again  a  great 
gulf  would  be  between  them,  —  a  gulf  he  had  helped  to 
dig,  and  which  he  could  not  pass.  Edith  had  intendec 


THE   MYSTERY    AT    GEASSY    SPBDfG.  119 

to  .ask  old  Judy  where  Arthur  was  going,  without,  howev- 
er, having  much  hope  of  success :  for,  since  the  conversa- 
sation  concerning  Nina,  Judy  had  been  wholly  non- 
committal, plainly  showing  that  she  had  been  trained  foi 
the  occasion,  but  changed  her  mind,  and  rode  leisurely 
ft  way,  going  round  by  Brier  Hill  to  call  upon  Grace  whom 
gLe  had  not  seen  for  some  little  time.  Grace,  as  usual,  wai 
full  of  complaints  against  Arthur  for  being  so  misanthropi- 
cal, so  cross-grained  and  so  queer,  shutting  himself  up  like  a 
hermit  and  refusing  to  see  any  one  but  herself  and  Edith. 

"What  is  he  going  to  Worcester  for  ?"  she  asked,  add- 
ing that  one  of  the  negroes  had  told  old  Rachel,  who  was 
there  the  previous  night. 

But  Edith  did  not  know,  unless  it  was  to  be  married,  and 
laughing  at  her  own  joke,  she  bade  Grace  good-bye,  hav- 
ing learned  by  accident  what  she  so  much  desired  to 
know. 

The  next  morning  she  arose  quite  early,  and  looking  in 
the  direction  of  Grassy  Spring,  which,  when  the  leaves 
were  fallen,  was  plainly  discernible,  she  saw  Arthur's  car- 
riage driving  from  his  gate.  There  was  no  train  due  at 
that  hour,  and  she  stood  wondering  until  the  carriage, 
which,  for  a  moment,  had  been  hidden  from  her  view,  ap- 
peared a  second  time  in  sight,  and  as  it  passed  the  house 
she  saw  Aunt  Phillis's  dusky  face  peering  from  the  win- 
dow. She  did  not  see  Arthur,  but  she  was  sure  he  was 
inside ;  and  when  the  horses  were  turned  into  the  road, 
which,  before  the  day  of  cars,  was  the  great  thoroughfare 
between  Shannondale  and  Worcester,  she  knew  he  had 
started  for  the  latter  place  in  his  carriage. 

"  What  can  it  be  for  ? "  she  said ;  "  and  why  has  he 
taken  Phillis?" 

But  puzzle  her  brain  as  she  might,  she  could  not  fathom 
the  mystery,  and  she  waited  for  what  would  next  occur. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Victor,  who,  without  being 
really  meddlesome,  managed  to  keep  himself  posted  with 


120  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

regard  to  the  affairs  at  Grassy  Spring,  told  her  that  Mt 
St.  Claire,  preferring  his  carriage  to  the  cars,  had  gono  in 
-  it  to  Worcester,  and  taken  Phillis  with  him;  that  lie 
would  be  absent  some  days ;  and  that  Sophy,  Phillis'd 
daughter,  when  questioned  as  to  his  business,  had  answer- 
ed evasively, 

u  Gone  to  fotch  his  wife  home  for  what  I  know." 

"  Ma  ybe  it  is  so,"  said  Victor,  looking  Edith  steadily 
iu  the  face.  "  Soph  didn't  mean  me  to  believe  it ;  but 
there's  many  a  truth  spoken  in  jest." 

Edith  knew  that,  but  she  would  not  hearken  for  a  mo- 
ment to  Victor's  suggestion.  It  made  her  too  unhappy, 
and  for  three  days  she  had  a  fair  opportunity  of  ascer- 
taining the  nature  of  her  feelings  toward  Arthur  St.  Claire, 
for  nothing  is^more  conducive  to  the  rapid  development 
of  love,  than  a  spice  of  jealousy  lest  another  has  won  the 
heart  we  so  much  covet. 

The  next  day,  the  fourth  after  Arthur's  departure,  she 
asked  Victor  to  ride  with  her  on  horseback,  saying  the 
fresh  March  wind  would  do  her  good.  It  was  nearly  sun- 
set when  they  started,  and,  as  there  was  a  splendid  moon, 
they  continued  their  excursion  to  quite  a  distance,  so  that 
it  was  seven  ere  they  found  themselves  at  the  foot  of  the 
long  hill  which  wound  past  Collingwood  and  on  to 
Grassy  Spring.  Half  way  up  the  hill,  moving  very  slowly, 
as  if  the  horses  were  jaded  and  tired,  was  a  traveling 
carriage,  which  both  Edith  and  Victor  recognized  at  once 
as  belonging  to  Arthur  St.  Claire. 

"  Let's  overtake  them,"  said  Edith,  and  chirruping  tc 
Bedouin,  she  was  soon  so  near  to  the  carriage  that  hei 
quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  low,  sweet  voice  singing 
a  German  air,  with  which  she  herself  had  always  been 
familiar,  though  when  she  first  learned  it  she  could  not 
tell. 

It  was  one  of  those  old  songs  which  Rachel  had  called 
weird  and  wild,  and  now,  as  she  listened  to  the  plaintive 


THE   MYSTERY   AT   GRASSY    SPRING.  121 

tones,  they  thrilled  on  every  nerve  with  a  strange  power 
as  if  it  were  a  requiem  sung  by  the  dead  over  their  own 
buried  hopes.  Nearer  and  nearer  Bedouin  pressed  to  the 
slowly  moving  vehicle,  until  at  last  she  was  nearly  even 
with  it. 

"Look,  Miss  Edith!"  and  Victor  grasped  her  bridle 
fin,  directing  her  attention  to  the  arms  folded  upon  the 
•window  and  the  girlish  head  resting  upon  the  arms,  in 
the  attitude  of  a  weary  child. 

One  little  ringless,  blue-veined  hand  was  plainly  dis- 
cernible in  the  bright  moonlight,  and  Edith  thought  how 
small  and  white  and  delicate  it  was. 

"Let's  go  on,"  she  whispered,  and  they  dashed  past 
the  carriage  just  as  Arthur  leaned  forward  to  see  v>'ho 
they  were. 

"  That  was  a  young  lady,"  said  Victor  coming  up  with 
Edith,  who  was  riding  at  a  headlong  speed. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it)"  and  Edith  again  touched  Bedouin 
with  her  whip  as  if  the  fast  riding  suited  well  her  tumul- 
tuous emotions. 

"His  bride?"  said  Victor,  interrogatively,  and  Edith 
replied,  "  Very  likely,  Victor,"  and  she  stopped  Bedouin 
short.  "  Victor,  don't  tell  any  one  of  the  lady  in  the  car- 
riage until  it's  known  for  certain  that  there  is  one  at 
Grassy  Spring." 

Victor  could  see  no  reason  for  this  request,  but  it  was 
sufficient  for  him  that  Edith  had  made  it,  and  he  promised 
readily  all  that  she  desired.  They  were  at  home  by  this 
time,  and  complaining  of  a  headache  Edith  excused  her- 
self earlier  than  usual  and  stole  up  to  her  chamber  where 
ehe  could  be  alone  to  wonder  toko  was  the  visitor  at 
Grassy  Spring.  It  might  be  a  bride,  and  it  might  be 
Nina.  Starting  to  her  feet  as  the  last  mentioned  indi- 
vidual came  into  her  mind,  she  walked  to  the  window 
and  saw  just  what  she  more  than  half  expected  to  see  — 
alight  shining  through  the  iron  lattice  of  the  Dm  —  a 


122  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

bright,  cheerful  light  —  and  as  she  gazed,  there  crept  ove? 
her  a  faint,  sick  feeling,  as  if  she  knew  of  the  ruin,  the 
desolation,  the  blighted  hopes  and  beautiful  wreck  em- 
bodied in  the  mystery  at  Grassy  Spring.  Covering  her 
eyes  with  her  hands  the  tears  trickled  through  her  fin- 
gers, falling  not  so  much  for  Arthur  St.  Claire  as  for  the 
] plaintive  singing  girl  shrouded  in  so  dark  a  mystery. 
Drying  her  eyes  she  looked  again  across  the  meadow,  but 
the  blinds  of  the  Den  were  closed,  and  only  the  moon- 
beams fell  where  the  blaze  of  the  lamp  had  been. 

A  week  went  by,  and  though  Grace  came  twice  to  Col- 
ling wood,  while  Victor  feigned  several  errands  to  Grassy 
Spring,  nothing  was  known  of  the  stranger.  Grace  evi- 
dently had  no  suspicion  of  her  existence,  while  Victor 
declared  there  was  no  trace  of  a  white  woman  any  where 
about  the  premises.  Mr.  St.  Claire,  he  said,  sat  in  the 
library,  his  feet  crossed  in  a  chair  and  his  hands  on  top 
of  his  head  as  if  in  a  brown  study,  while  Aiint  Phillis 
appeared  far  more  impatient  than  usual,  and  had  inti- 
mated to  him  plainly  that  "  in  her  'pinion  white  niggers 
had  better  be  at  home  tendin'  to  thar  own  business,  ef 
they  had  any,  and  not  pryin'  into  thar  neighbor's  afiars." 

At  last  Edith  was  surprised  at  receiving  a  note  from 
Arthur,  saying  he  was  ready  to  resume  their  lessons  at 
any  time.  Highly  delighted  with  the  plan  Edith  answer- 
ed immediately  that  she  would  come  on  the  morrow, 
which  was  Friday.  Richard  did  not  offer  to  go,  owing 
in  a  great  measure  to  the  skillful  management  of  Victor, 
who,  though  he  did  not  suggest  Mr.  Floyd  i  nd  the  west- 
ern wood  lot,  found  some  equally  good  excuse  why  hi.8 
master's  presence  would,  that  day  of  all  others,  be  neces- 
sary at  home. 

The  wild  March  winds  by  this  time  had  given  place 
to  the  warmer,  balmier  air  of  April.  The  winter  snow 
had  melted  from  the  hillside,  and  here  and  there  tufts  of 
fresh  young  grass  were  seen  starting  into  life.  It 


THE   MYSTERY   AT   GRASSY   SPRING.  123 

just  such  a  morning,  in  short,  as  is  most  grateful  to  the 
young,  and  Edith  felt  its  inspiriting  influence  as  she  rode 
along  the  rather  muddy  road.  Another  there  was,  too, 
who  felt  it;  and  as  Edith  sauntered  slowly  up  the  path, 
entering  this  time  upon  the  rear  piazza  instead  of  the 
front,  she  heard  again  the  soft,  low  voice  which  had 
sounded  so  mournful  and  sweet  when  heard  in  the  fti.l 
moonlight.  Looking  up  she  saw  that  a  window  of  the 
Den  was  open,  and  through  the  lattice  work  a  little  hand 
was  thrust,  as  if  beckoning  her  to  come.  Stepping  back 
she  tried  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  person,  but  failed  to  do 
so,  though  the  hand  continued  beckoning,  and  from  the 
height  there  floated  down  to  her  the  single  word,  "  Mig- 
gie"  That  was  all ;  but  it  brought  her  hand  to  her  head 
as  if  she  had  received  a  sudden  blow. 

"  Miggie  —  Miggie,"  she  repeated.  "  I  have  heard  that 
name  before.  It  must  have  belonged  to  some  one  in  the 
Asylum." 

A  confused  murmur  as  if  of  expostulation  and  remon- 
strance was  now  heard  —  the  childish  hand  disappeared 
and  scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  about,  Edith  stepped 
into  the  hall  and  advanced  into  the  library,  where  she  sat 
down  to  wait  for  Arthur.  It  was  not  long  ere  he  appear- 
ed, locking  the  door  as  he  came  in  and  thus  cutting  off  all 
communication  between  that  room  and  the  stairway  lead- 
ing to  the  Den.  Matters  were,  in  Edith's  estimation,  as- 
suming a  serious  aspect,  and  remembering  how  pleadingly 
the  name  "  Miggie"  had  been  uttered,  she  half-resolved 
to  demand  of  Arthur  the  immediate  release  of  the  help- 
less creature  thus  held  in  durance  vile.  But  he  looked  so 
unhappy,  so  hopelessly  wretched  that  her  sympathy  was 
Boon  enlisted  for  him  rather  than  his  fair  captive.  Still 
she  would  try  him  a  little  and  when  they  were  fairly  at 
work  she  said  to  him  jestingly, 

"I  heard  it  hinted  that  you  would  bring  home  a  wife, 
but  I  do  not  see  her.  Where  is  she,  pray?" 


124  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Arthur  uttered  no  sound  save  a  stifled  moan,  and  when 
Edith  dared  to  steal  a  look  at  him  she  saw  that  his  brown 
hair  was  moist  with  perspiration,  which  stood  also  in 
drops  about  his  lips. 

u  Mr.  St.  Claire,"  she  said,  throwing  down  her  pencil 
and  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  "  I  can  endure  this  no  Ion 
ger.  What  is  the  matter?  Tell  me.  You  have  some 
great  mental  sorrow,  I  know,  and  I  long  to  share  it  with 
you  —  may  I?  Who  have  you  up  stairs  and  why  this 
mystery  concerning  her  ?  " 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looked  imploring- 
ly into  the  face,  which  turned  away  from  her,  as  if  afraid 
to  meet  her  truthful  glance.  Once  he  thought  to  tell  her 
all,  but  when  he  remembered  how  beautiful  she  was,  how 
much  he  loved  her,  and  how  dear  her  society  was  to  him, 
he  refrained,  for  he  vainly  fancied  that  a  confession  would 
drive  her  from  him  forever.  He  did  not  know  Edith 
Hastings ;  he  had  not  yet  fathomed  the  depths  of  her 
womanly  nature,  and  he  could  not  guess  how  tenderly, 
even  while  her  own  heart  was  breaking,  she  would  have 
soothed  his  grief  and  been  like  an  angel  of  mercy  to  the 
innocent  cause  of  all  his  woe. 

"  I  dare  not  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  You  would  hate  me 
if  I  did,  and  that  I  could  not  endure.  It  may  not  be 
pleasant  for  you  to  come  here  any  more,  and  perhaps  you 
had  better  not." 

For  a  moment  Edith  sat  motionless.  She  had  not  ex- 
pected  this  from  Arthur,  and  it  roused  within  her  a  feel 
ing  of  resentment. 

"  And  so  you  only  sent  for  me  to  give  me  my  dismissal," 
she  said,  in  a  cold,  icy  tone.  "  Be  it  as  you  like.  I  draw 
tolerably  well,  you  say.  I  have  no  doubt  I  can  get  along 
alone.  Send  your  bill  at  once  to  Mr.  Harrington.  He 
does  not  like  to  be  ir  -Jebt." 

Sho  spoke  proudly,  haughtily,  and  her  eyes,  usually  so 
eoft  in  their  expression,  had  in  them  a  black  look  of  anger 


THE   MYSTERY   AT   GEASSY    SPRING.  125 

which  pierced  Arthur's  very  soul.  Ho  could  not  part  with 
her  thus,  and  grasping  the  hand  reached  out  to  take  ita 
gauntlet,  he  held  it  fast,  while  he  said,  "  What  are  we 
doing,  Edith?  Quarrelling?  It  must  not  be.  I  suggested 
your  giving  up  the  lessons  because  I  thought  the  arrange- 
ment might  be  satisfactory  to  you,  and  not  because  2 
wished  it,  for  I  do  not;  I  cannot  give  up  the  only  source 
of  happiness  left  to  me.  Forget  what  I  said.  Re-main 
my  pupil  and  I'll  try  to  be  more  cheerful  in  your  presence 
You  shall  not  help  to  bear  my  burden  as  you  bear  that  of 
Collingwood's  unfortunate  inmates." 

Edith  never  liked  to  hear  her  relations  to  Richard  re- 
ferred to  in  this  manner,  and  she  answered  quickly, 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  St.  Claire,  in  thinking  I  bear 
any  burden  either  here  or  elsewhere.  No  one  ever  had  a 
happier  home  than  1,  and  there's  nothing  on  earth  I  would 
not  do  for  Richard." 

"  Would  you  marry  him,  Edith  ?  "   and  Arthur  scanned 
her  closely.     Would  you  be  his  wife  if  he  demanded  it 
as  his  right  ?   and  I  think  he  will  do  this  sometime." 
Edith  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  as  she  answered, 
"  Not  if  he  demanded  it  as  a  right,  though  he  might 
well  do  that,  for  I  owe  him  everything.    But  if  he  loved 
me,  and  I  loved  him." 

She  paused,  and  in  the  silence  which  ensued  the  tumul- 
tuous beating  of  her  heart  was  plainly  audible.  No  one 
before  hac*  suggested  to  her  the  possibility  of  her  being 
Richard's  wife,  and  the  idea  was  terrible  to  her.  She 
loved  him,  but  not  as  a  wife  should  love  her  husband. 
He  loved  her,  too ;  and  now,  as  she  remembered  many 
things  in  the  past,  she  was  half  convinced  that  she  to  him 
was  dearer  than  a  sister,  child,  or  friend.  He  had  forgot- 
ten the  Swedish  baby's  mother.  She  knew  he  had  by  his 
always  checking  her  when  she  attempted  to  speak  of 
Eloise.  Out  of  the  ashes  of  this  early  love  a  later  love 
had  sprung,  and  she  was  possibly  its  object.  The  thought 


126  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

was  a  crushing  one,  and  unmindful  of  Arthur's  presence 
she  laid  her  head  upon  the  table  and  sobbed, 

"  It  cannot  be.  Richard  will  never  ask  me  to  be  his 
wife.  Never,  oh  never." 

"  But  if  lie  does,  Edith,  you  will  not  tell  him  no.  Prom- 
ise me  that.  It's  my  only  hope  of  salvation  from  total 
ruin  ! "  and  Arthur  drew  so  near  to  her  that  his  arm  found 
its  way  around  her  slender  waist. 

Had  he  struck  her  with  a  glittering  dagger  he  could 
not  have  hurt  her  more  than  by  pleading  with  her  to  be 
another's  wife.  But  she  would  not  let  him  know  it.  He 
did  not  love  her  as  she  had  sometimes  foolishly  fancied  he 
did ;  and  lifting  up  her  head  she  answered  him  proudly, 

"  Yes,  Arthur  St.  Claire,  when  Richard  Harrington  asks 
me  to  be  his  bride  I  will  not  tell  him  no.  Are  you  satis- 
fied?" 

"  I  am,"  he  said,  though  his  white  lips  gave  the  lie  to 
the  words  he  uttered,  and  his  heart  smote  him  cruelly  for 
his  selfishness  in  wishing  to  save  himself  by  sacrificing 
Edith ;  and  it  would  be  a  sacrifice,  he  knew  —  a  fearful 
sacrifice,  the  giving  her  to  a  blind  man,  old  enough  to  be 
her  sire,  noble,  generous  and  good,  though  he  were. 

It  was  a  little  singular  that  Arthur's  arm  should  still 
linger  about  the  waist  of  one  who  had  promised  to  be 
another's  wife,  provided  she  were  asked,  but  so  it  was ;  it 
staid  there,  while  he  persuaded  her  to  come  again  to 
Grassy  Spring,  and  not  to  give  up  the  lessons  so  pleasant 
to  them  both. 

He  was  bending  very  near  to  her  when  a  sound  upon 
the  stairs  caught  his  ear.  It  was  the  same  German  air 
Edith  had  heard  in  the  yard,  and  she  listened  breathlessly* 
while  it  came  nearer  to  the  door.  Suddenly  the  singer 
Beemed  to  change  her  mind,  for  the  music  began  slowly 
to  recede  and  was  soon  lost  to  hearing  within  the  four 
walls  of  the  Den.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either 
Arthur  or  Edith,  until  the  latter  said, 


NIXA.  127 

*  It  is  time  I  was  at  home,"  and  she  arose  to  go. 
£Ee  offered  no  remonstrance,  but  accompanying  ner  to 
u  *  gate,  placed  her  in  the  saddle,  and  then  stood  watch- 
ing her  aa  she  galloped  away. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

NINA. 

Three  or  four  times  Edith  went  to  Grassy  Spring, 
seeing  nothing  of  the  mysterious  occupant  of  the  Den, 
hearing  nothing  of  her,  and  she  began  to  think  she  might 
have  returned  to  Worcester,  Many  times  she  was  on  the 
point  of  questioning  Arthur,  but  from  what  had  passed, 
she  knew  how  disagreeable  the  subject  was  to  him,  and 
she  generously  forbore. 

"  I  think  he  might  tell  me,  any  way,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, half  poutingly,  when,  one  morning  near  the  latter 
part  of  April,  she  rode  slowly  toward  Grassy  Spring. 

Their  quarrel,  if  quarrel  it  could  be  called,  had  been 
made  up,  or,  rather,  tacitly  forgotten,  and  Arthur  more 
than  once  had  cursed  himself  for  having,  in  a  moment  of 
excitement,  asked  her  to  marry  Richard  Harrington. 
While  praying  to  be  delivered  from  temptation  he  was 
constantly  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  forbidden 
fruit,  longing  for  it  more  and  more,  and  feeling  how 
worthless  life  would  be  to  him  without  it.  Still,  by  a 
mighty  effort,  he  restrained  himself  from  doing  or  saying 
aught  which  could  be  constrained  into  expressions  of 
love,  and  their  interviews  were  much  like  those  which 
had  preceded  his  last  visit  to  Worcester.  People  were 
beginning  to  talk  about  him  and  his  beautiful  pupil,  but 
leading  the  isolated  life  he  ,did,  it  came  not  to  his  ears. 
Grace  indeed,  might  have  enlightened  both  himself  and 


128  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Edith  with  regard  to  the  village  gossip,  but  looking  upcn 
the  latter  as  her  rival,  and  desiring  greatly  that  she 
should  marry  Arthur,  she  forebore  from  communicating 
to  either  of  them  anything  which  would  be  likely  to  re- 
tard an  affair  she  fancied  was  progressing  famously.  Thus 
without  a  counsellor  or  friend  was  Edith  left  to  follow 
the  bent  of  her  inclinations ;  and  on  this  April  morning, 
as  she  rode  along,  mentally  chiding  Arthur  for  not  en- 
•trusting  his  secret  to  her,  she  wondered  how  she  had 
ever  managed  to  be  happy  without  him,  and  if  the  time 
would  ever  come  when  her  visits  to  Grassy  Spring  would 
cease. 

Leaving  Bedouin  at  the  rear  gate  she  walked  slowly  to 
the  house,  glancing  often  in  the  direction  of  the  Den,  the 
windows  of  which  were  open  this  morning,  and  as  she 
came  near  she  saw  a  pair  of  soft  blue  eyes  peering  at  he» 
through  the  lattice,  then  a  little  hand  was  thrust  outside, 
beckoning  to  her  as  it  did  once  before. 

"  Wait,  Miggie,  while  I  write,  came  next  to  her  ear,  in 
a  voice  as  sweet  and  plaintive  as  a  broken  lute. 

Instantly  Edith  stopped,  and  at  last  a  tiny  note  came 
fluttering  to  her  feet.  Grasping  it  eagerly  she  read,  in  a 
pretty,  girlish  hand : 

"  DARLING  MIGGIE  :  —  Nina  has  been  so  sick  this  great 
long  while,  and  her  head  is  so  full  of  pain.  Why  don't 
you  come  to  me,  Miggie  ?  I  sit  and  wait  and  listen  till 
my  forehead  thumps  and  thumps,  just  as  a  bad  nurse 
thumped  it  once  down  in  the  Asylum. 

"  Let's  run  away  —  you  and  I ;  run  back  to  the  magno- 
lias, where  it's  always  summer,  with  no  asylums  full  of 
wicked  people. 

"  I'm  so  lonely,  Miggie.  Come  up  stairs,  won't  you  ? 
They  say  I  rave  and  tear  my  clothes,  but  I  won't  any 
more  if  you'll  come.  Tell  Arthur  so.  He's  good.  He'll 
do  what  you  ask  him." 

"Poor  little  Nina,"  and  Edith's  tears  fell  fast  upon  the 


12& 

bit  of  paper.  "  I  will  see  you  to-day.  Perhaps  I  may  do 
you  some  good.  Dear,  unfortunate  Nina ! " 

There  was  a  step  upon  the  grass,  and  thrusting  the 
note  into  ter  pocket,  Edith  turned  to  meet  Arthur,  who 
seemed  this  morning  unusually  cheerful  and  greeted  her 
with  something  like  his  olden  tenderness.  But  Edith 
was  too  intent  upon  Nina  to  think  much  of  him,  and  after 
the  lesson  commenced  she  appeared  so  abstracted  that  it 
was  Arthur's  turn  to  ask  if  she  were  offended.  She  had 
made  herself  believe  she  was,  for  notwithstanding  Nina's 
assertion  that  "  Arthur  was  good,"  she  thought  it  a  sin 
and  a  shame  for  him  to  keep  any  thing  but  a  raving  lu- 
natic hidden  away  up  stairs ;  and  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion she  answered,  "  Yes,  I  am  offended,  and  I  don't  mean 
to  come  here  any  more,  unless " 

"  Edith,"  and  the  tone  of  Arthur's  voice  was  fraught 
with  pain  so  exquisite  that  Edith  paused  and  looked  into 
his  face,  where  various  emotions  were  plainly  visible. 
Love,  fear,  remorse,  apprehension,  all  were  blended  to- 
gether in  the  look  he  fixed  upon  her.  "  You  won't  leave 
me,"  he  said.  "  Any  thing  but  that.  Tell  me  my  error, 
and  how  I  can  atone." 

Edith  was  about  to  speak,  when,  on  the  stairs  without, 
—  the  stairs  leading  from  the  den  —  there  was  the  patter 
of  little  feet,  and  a  gentle,  timid  knock  was  heard  upon 
the  door. 

"  It's  locked  —  go  back ; "  and  Arthur's  voice  had  in  it 
a  tone  of  command. 

"  Mr.  St.  Claire,"  and  Edith  sprang  from  her  chair,  u  I 
can  unlock  that  loor,  and  I  will." 

Like  a  block  jf  marble  Arthur  stood  while  Edith  opened 
the  oak-paneled  door.  Another  moment  and  Nina  stood 
before  her,  as  she  stands  now  first  before  our  readers. 

Edith  knew  her  in  a  moment  from  the  resemblance  to 
the  daguerreotype  seen  more  than  'ught  years  before,  and 
as  she  now  scanned  her  features  it  seemed  to  her  they 


130  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

had  scarcely  changed  at  all.  Arthur  had  said  of  her  then 
that  she  was  not  quite  sixteen,  consequently  she  was 
now  nearly  twenty-five,  but  she  did  not  look  as  old  as 
Edith,  so  slight  was  her  form,  so  delicate  her  limbs,  and 
so  childlike  and  simple  the  expression  of  her  fece.  She 
was  very,  very  fair,  and  Edith  felt  that  never  Defore  had 
she  looked  upon  a  face  so  exquisitely  beautiful.  Her  hair 
was  of  a  reddish  yellow  hue,  and  rippled  in  short  silken 
rings  all  over  her  head,  curling  softly  in  her  neck,  but  was 
not  nearly  as  long  as  it  had  been  in  the  picture.  Alas, 
the  murderous  shears  had  more  than  once  strayed  rough- 
ly among  those  golden  locks,  to  keep  the  little  white,  fat 
hands,  now  clasped  so  harmlessly  together,  from  tearing 
them  out  with  frantic  violence.  Edith  thought  of  this 
and  sighed,  while  her  heart  yearned  toward  the  helpless 
young  creature,  who  stood  regarding  her  with  a  scruti- 
nizing glance,  as  one  studies  a  beautiful  picture.  The 
face  was  very  white  —  indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  it  were 
long  since  the  blood  had  visited  the  cheeks,  which,  never- 
theless, were  round  and  plump,  as  were  the  finely  mould- 
ed arms,  displayed  to  good  advantage  by  the  loose  sleeves 
of  the  crimson  cashmere  wrapper.  The  eyes  were  deep- 
ly, darkly  blue,  and  the  strangely  gleaming  light  which 
shone  from  them,  betrayed  at  once  the  terrible  truth  that 
Nina  was  crazed. 

It  was  a  novel  sight,  those  two  young  girls  watching 
each  other  so  intently,  both  so  beautiful  and  yet  so  unlike 
— -  the  one,  tall,  stately,  and  almost  queen-like  in  her  pro- 
portions, with  dark,  brilliant  complexion ;  eyes  of  mid- 
night blackness,  and  masses  of  raven  ha'.r,  bound  around 
her  head  in  many  a  heavy  braid  —  the  other,  fairy-like  in 
size,  with  golden  curls  and  soft  blue  eyes,  which  filled  with 
tears  at  last  as  some  undefinable  emotion  swept  over  her 
In  the  rich,  dark  beauty  of  Edith's  face  there  was  a  won- 
derful fascination,  which  riveted  the  crazy  girl  to  the  spot 
Where  she  had  stopped  when  first  she  crossed  the  thresh 


NESTA.  bi 

old,  and  when  at  last,  sinking  upon  the  sofa,  Edith  exten- 
ded her  arms,  as  a  mother  to  her  child,  poor  little  Nina 
went  forward,  and  with  a  low,  gasping  sob,  fell  upon  her 
bosom,  weeping  passionately,  her  whole  frame  trembling 
and  her  sobs  so  violent  that  Edith  became  alarmed,  and 
tried  by  kisses  and  soft  endearing  words  to  soothe  her  grief 
an<?  check  the  tears  raining  in  torrents  from  her  eyes. 

"  It's  nice  to  cry.  It  takes  the  heavy  pain  away,"  and 
Nina  made  a  gesture  that  Edith  must  not  stop  her,  while 
Arthur,  roused  from  his  apathy,  also  said, 

"  She  has  not  wept  before  in  years.  It  will  be  a  great 
relief." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Nina  lifted  up  her  head,  and 
turned  toward  the  corner  whence  it  came^  but  Edith  saw 
that  in  the  glance  there  was  neither  reproach  nor  fear, 
nothing  save  trusting  confidence,  and  her  heart  insensibly 
softened  toward  him. 

u  Poor  Arthur,"  Nina  murmured,  and  laying  her  head 
again  on  Edith's  bosom,  she  said,  "  Every  body  is  sad 
where  I  am,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Oh,  I  can't  help  it. 
Nina's  crazy,  Miggie.  Nina  is.  Poor  Nina,"  and  the  voice 
which  uttered  these  words  was  so  sadly  touching  that 
Edith's  tears  mingled  with  those  of  the  young  creature  she 
huggfd  the  closer  to  her,  whispering, 

"  I  know  it,  darling,  and  I  pity  you  so  much.  May- 
be you'll  get  well,  now  that  you  know  me." 

"  Yes,  if  you'll  stay  here  always,"  said  Nina.  "What 
made  you  gone  so  long?  I  wanted  you  so  much  when 
the  nights  were  dark  and  lonesome,  and  little  bits  of  fac<;S 
bent  over  me  like  yours  used  to  be,  Miggie  —  yours  in 
the  picture,  when  you  wore  the  red  morocco  shoe  and  I 
led  you  on  the  high  verandah." 

"  "What  does  she  mean  ?  "  asked  Edith,  who  had  listen- 
ed to  the  words  as  to  something  not  wholly  new  to  her. 

u  I  don't  know,"  returned  Arthur,  "  unless  she  has  con- 
founded you  with  her  sister,  Marguerite,  who  died  many 


IS12  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

years  ago.  I  have  heard  that  Nina,  failing  to  speak  th« 
real  name,  always  called  her  Miggie.  Possibly  you  re* 
semble  Miggie's  mother.  I  think  Aunt  Phillis  said  yon 
did." 

Edith,  too,  remembered  Phillis'  saying  that  she  looked 
like  "  Master  Bernard's  "  wife,  and  Arthur's  explanations 
seemed  highly  probable. 

"  Dear,  darling  Nina,"  she  said,  kissing  the  pure  whitfl 
forehead,  "  I  will  be  a  sister  to  you." 

"  And  stay  with  me  ? "  persisted  Nina.  "  Sleep  with 
me  nights  with  your  arms  round  my  neck,  just  like  you 
used  to  do  ?  I  hate  to  sleep  alone,  with  Soph  coiled  up 
on  the  floor,  she  scares  me  so,  and  won't  answer  when  I 
call  her.  Then,  when  I'm  put  in  the  recess,  its  terrible. 
Don't  let  me  go  in  there  again,  will  you  ?  " 

Edith  had  not  like  Grace,  looked  into  the  large  closet 
adjoining  the  Den,  and  she  did  not  know  what  Nina 
meant,  but  at  a  venture  she  replied, 

"  No,  darling.  You'll  be  so  good  that  they  will  not 
wish  to  put  you  there." 

" I  can't"  returned  Nina,  with  the  manner  of  one  who 
distrusted  herself.  "  I  try,  because  it  will  please  Arthur, 
but  I  must  sing  and  dance  and  pull  my  hair  when  my 
head  feels  so  big  and  heavy,  and  once,  Miggie,  when  it 
was  big  as  the  house,  and  I  pulled  my  hair  till  they  shaved 
it  off,  I  tore  my  clothes  in  pieces  and  threw  them  into  the 
fire.  Then,  when  Arthur  came  —  Dr.  Griswold  sent  for 
him,  you  see  —  I  buried  my  fingers  in  his  hair,  so,"  and 
she  was  about  to  clutch  her  own  golden  locks  when  Edith 
shudderingly  caught  her  hands  and  held  them  tightly  lest 
they  should  harm  the  tresses  she  thought  so  beautiful. 

"Arthur  cried,"  continued  Nina  —  "  cried  so  hard  that 
my  brain  grew  cool  at  once.  It's  dreadfiil  to  see  a  man 
cry,  Miggie  —  a  great,  strong  man  like  Arthur.  Poor  Ar- 
thur, didn't  you  cry  and  call  me  your  lost  Nina  ?  " 

A  suppressed  moan  was  Arthur's  answer,  and   Nina, 


HTSTA.  133 

when  she  heard  it,  slid  from  Edith's  arras  and  crossing 
over  to  where  he  sat,  climbed  into  his  lap  with  all  the  free- 
dom of  a  little  child,  and  winding  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
said  to  him  softly, 

"Don't  be  so  sorry,  Arthur,  Nina'll  be  good.  Nina  ia 
good  now.  He's  crying  again.  Make  him  stop,  \\ont 
you  ?  It  hurts  Nina  so.  There,  poor  boy,"  and  the  ILtle 
waxen  hands  wiped  away  the  tears  falling  so  fast  over 
Arthur's  face. 

Holding  one  upon  the  end  of  her  finger  and  watching  it 
until  it  dropped  upon  the  carpet,  she  said  with  a  smile, 
"  Look,  Miggie,  Metis  tears  are  bigger  than  girls." 

"  Oh,  how  Edith's  heart  ached  for  the  strange  couple 
opposite  her  —  the  strong  man  and  the  crazy  young  girl 
who  clung  to  him  as  confidingly,  as  if  his  bosom  were  her 
rightful  resting  place.  She  pitied  them  both,  but  her 
sympathies  were  enlisted  for  Arthur,  and  coming  to  his 
side  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  damp  brown  locks,  which 
Nina  once  had  torn  in  her  insane  fury,  and  in  a  voice 
which  spoke  volumes  of  sympathy,  whispered,  "I  am 
sorry  for  you." 

This  was  too  much  for  Arthur,  and  he  sobbed  aloud, 
while  Edith,  forgetting  all  proprieties  in  her  grief  for  him, 
bowed  her  face  upon  his  head,  and  he  could  feel  her  hot 
tears  dropping  on  his  hair. 

For  a  moment  Nina  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in 
silence,  then  standing  upon  her  feet  and  bending  over 
both,  she  said, 

"Don't  ciy,  Miggie,  don't  cry,  Arthur.  Nina  ain't 
very  bad  to  day.  She  wont  be  bad  any  more.  Don't. 
It  will  all  come  right  some  time.  It  surely  will.  Nina 
won't  be  here  always,  and  there'll  be  no  need  to  cry  when 
Bhe  is  gone." 

She  seemed  to  think  the  distress  was  all  on  her  ac- 
count, and  in  her  childish  way  she  sought  to  comfort  them 
until  hope  whispered  to  both  that,  as  she  said,  "  It  would 
come  right  sometime." 


134  DAKKNESS    AXI>   I>AYIJGHT. 

E  tilth  was  the  first  to  be  comforted,  for  she  did  .not, 
like  Arthur,  know  what  coining  right  involved.  She 
only  thought  that  possibly  Nina's  shattered  intellect 
might  he  restored,  and  she  longed  to  ask  the  history  of 
one,  thoughts  of.  whom  had  in  a  measure  been  blended 
with  her  whole  life,  during  the  last  eight  years.  There  waa 
a  mystery  connected  with  her,  she  knew,  and  she  was 
about  to  question  Arthur,  who  had  dried  his  tears  and 
was  winding  Nina's  short  curls  around  his  fingers,  when 
Phillis  appeared  in  the  library,  starting  with  surprise  when 
ehe  saw  the  trio  assembled  there. 

"Marster  Arthur,"  she  began,  glancing  furtively  a* 
Edith,  "  how  came  Miss  Nina  here  ?  Let  me  take  hei 
back.  Come,  honey,"  and  she  reached  out  her  hand  to 
Nina,  who,  jumping  again  upon  Arthur's  knee,  clung  to 
him  closely,  exclaiming,  "No,  no,  old  Phillis;  Nina's 
good  —  NinaTl  stay  with  Miggie ! "  and  as  if  fancying 
that  Edith  would  be  a  surer  protector  than  Arthur,  she 
slid  from  his  lap  and  running  to  the  sofa  where  Edith  sat, 
half  hid  herself  behind  her,  whispering,  "  Send  her  off — 
send  her  off.  Let  me  stay  with  you ! " 

Edith  was  fearful  that  Nina's  presence  might  interfere 
with  the  story  she  meant  to  hear,  but  she  could  not  find 
it  in  her  heart  to  send  away  the  little  girl  clinging  so 
fondly  to  her,  and  to  Phillis  she  said,  "  She  may  stay  this 
once,  I  am  sure.  I  will  answer  for  her  good  behavior." 

"Taint  that  —  'taint  that,"  muttered  Phillis,  jerking 
herself  from  the  room,  "  but  how's  the  disgrace  to  be 
kep'  ef  everybody  sees  her." 

"Disgrace! "  and  Edith  glanced  inquiringly  at  Arthur. 

She  could  not  believe  that  Nina  was  any  disgrace,  and 
she  asked  what  Phillis  meant. 

Crossing  the  room  Arthur  sat  down  upon  the  sofa  with 
Nina  between  himself  and  Edith,  who  was  pleased  to  see 
that  he  wound  his  arm  around  the  young  girl  as  if  she 
Were  dear  to  him,  notwithstanding  her  disgrace.  Like  a 


XTS-A.  135 

child  Nina  played  with  his  watch  chain,  his  coat  buttons, 
and  his  fingers,  apparently  oblivions  to  what  was  passing 
about  her.  She  only  felt  that  she  was  where  she  wished 
to  be,  and  knowing  that  he  could  say  before  her  what  he 
pleased  without  the  least  danger  of  her  comprehending  9 
word,  Arthur,  much  to  Edith's  surprise,  began : 

"You  have  seen  Nina,  Miss  Hastings.  You  know 
what  is  the  mystery  at  Grassy  Spring  —  the  mystery 
about  which  the  villagers  are  beginning  to  gossip,  so 
Phillis  says,  but  now  that  you  have  seen,  now  that  you 
know  she  is  here,  I  care  not  for  the  rest.  The  keenest 
pang  is  over  and  I  am  beginning  already  to  feel  better 
Concealment  is  not  in  accordance  with  my  nature,  and 
it  has  worn  on  me  terribly.  Years  ago  you  knew  of 
Xina ;  it  is  due  to  you  now  that  you  know  who  she  is, 
and  why  her  destiny  is  linked  to  mine.  Listen,  then, 
while  I  tell  you  hef  sad  story." 

" But  she"  interrupted  Edith,  pointing  to  Nina,  whose 
blue  eves  were  turned  to  Arthur.  "  Will  it  not  be  better 
to  wait?  Won't  she  understand?" 

"Not  a  word,"  he  replied.  "She's  amusing  herself, 
you  see,  with  my  buttons,  and  when  these  fail,  Fll  give 
her  my  drawing  pencil,  or  some  one  of  the  numerous  play- 
things I  always  keep  in  my  pocket  for  her.  She  seldom 
comprehends  what  we  say  and  never  remembers  it.  This 
is  one  of  the  peculiar  phases  of  her  insanity." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Edith,  involuntarily  caressing  Nina, 
who  smiled  up  in  her  face,  and  leaning  her  head  upon  her 
•houlder,  continued  her  play  with  the  buttons. 

Meanwhile  Arthur  sat  lost  in  thought,  determining  in 
Lis  own  mind  how  much  he  should  tell  Edith  of  Nina, 
and  how  much  withhold.  He  could  not  tell  her  all,  even 
though  he  knew  that  by  keeping  back  a  part,  much  of 
his  past  conduct  would  seem  wholly  inexplicable,  but  he 
could  not  help  it,  and  when  at  last  he  saw  that  Edith  was 
waiting  for  him,  he  pressed  his  hands  a  moment  against 


136  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

his  heart  to  stop  its  violent  beating,  and  drawing  a  long, 
long  sigh,  began  the  story. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ABTHUB'S  STOBY. 

"  1  must  commence  at  the  beginning,"  he  said,  "  and 
tell  you  first  of  Nina's  father  —  Ernest  Bernard,  of  Flori- 
da. I  was  a  lad  of  fourteen  when  I  met  him  in  Rich- 
mond, Virginia,  which  you  know  was  my  former  home. 
He  was  spending  a  few  weeks  there,  and  dined  one  day 
with  my  guardian,  with  whom  I  was  then  living.  I  did 
not  fancy  him  at  all.  He  seemed  even  to  me,  a  boy,  like 
a  bad,  unprincipled  man,  and  I  afterward  learned  that 
such  had  been  his  former  character,  though  at  the  time  I 
knew  him  he  had  reformed  in  a  great  measure.  He  was 
very  kind  indeed  to  me,  and  as  I  became  better  acquaint- 
ed with  him  my  prejudices  gradually  wore  away,  until  at 
last  I  liked  him  very  much,  and  used  to  listen  with  delight 
to  the  stories  he  told  of  his  Florida  home,  and  of  his 
little,  golden-haired  Nina,  always  finishing  his  remarks 
concerning  her  with,  '  But  you  can't  have  her,  boy.  No- 
body can  marry  Nina.  Had  little  Miggie  lived  you  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  my  son-in-law,  but  you  can't  as  'tis,  for 
Nina  will  never  marry.' " 

"No,  Nina  can  never  marry;"  and  the  golden  curia 
shook  decidedly,  as  the  Nina  inMtjuestion  repeated  the 
words,  "  Miggie  can  marry  Arthur,  but  not  Nina,  no  — 
no!" 

Edith  blushed  painfully,  and  averted  her  eyes,  while 
Arthur  continued: 

**  During  Mr.  Bernard's  stay  in  Richmond  he  was  at- 


ARTHUB'B  STORY.  131 

tacked  with  that  loathsome  disease  the  small  pox,  and 
deserted  by  all  his  friends,  was  in  a  most  deplorable 
condition,  when  I,  who  had  had  the  varioloid,  begged  and 
obtained  permission  to  nurse  him,  which  I  did  as  well  as 
I  was  able,  staying  by  him  until  the  danger  was  over. 
Flow  far  I  was  instrumental  to  his  recovery  I  cannot  say. 
He  professed  to  think  I  saved  his  life,  and  was  profuse  in 
his  protestations  of  gratitude.  He  was  very  impulsive? 
and  conceived  for  me  a  friendship  which  ended  only  with 
his  death.  At  all  events  he  proved  as  much  by  the  great 
trust  eventually  reposed  in  me,"  and  he  nodded  toward 
Nina,  who  having  tired  of  the  buttons  and  the  chain,  was 
busy  now  with  the  bunch  of  keys  she  had  purloined  from 
his  pocket. 

"  I  was  in  delicate  health,"  said  Arthur,  "  and  as  the 
cold  weather  was  coming  on,  he  insisted  upon  taking  me 
home  with  him,  and  I  accordingly  accompanied  him.  to 
Florida —  to  Sunny-bank,  his  country  seat.  It  was  a 
grand  old  place,  shaded  by  magnolias  and  surrounded  by 
a  profusion  of  vines  and  flowering  shrubs,  but  the  most 
beautiful  flower  of  all  was  Nina,  then  eleven  years  of 
age." 

Nina  knew  that  he  was  praising  her — that  Edith  sanc- 
tioned the  praise,  and  with  the  same  feeling  the  little  child 
experiences  when  told  that  it  is  good,  she  smiled  upon 
Arthur,  who,  smoothing  her  round  white  cheek,  went  on  : 

u  My  sweet  Florida  rose,  I  called  her,  and  many  a  romp 
ing  frolic  we  had  together  during  the  winter  months,  and 
many  a  serious  talk,  too,  we  had  of  her  second  mother ; 
her  own  she  did  not  remember,  and  of  her  sister  Miggie, 
whose  grave  we  often  visited,  sti  owing  it  with  flowers 
and  watering  it  with  tears,  for  Nina's  affection  for  her  lost 
sister  was  so  touching  that  I  often  wept  with  her  over 
Miggic's  grave." 

M  Miggie  isn't  dead,"  said  Nina.  "  She's  here,  ain't  you 
Miggie  ?"  and  she  nestled  closer  to  Edith,  who  was  grow* 


138  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

mg  strangely  interested  in  that  old  house,  shade!  with 
magnolias,  and  in  the  grave  of  that  little  child. 

"  I  came  home  in  the  spring,"  said  Arthur,  going  on 
with  the  story  Nina  had  interrupted,  "  but  I  kept  up  a 
boyish  correspondence  with  Nina,  though  my  affection  for 
Ler  gradually  weakened.  After  becoming  a  pupil  in  Ge- 
neva Academy,  I  was  exceedingly  ambitious,  and  to  stand 
first  in  my  class  occupied  more  of  my  thoughts  than  Nina 
Bernard.  Still,  when  immediately  after  I  entered  Geneva 
College  as  a  sophomore,  I  learned  that  her  father  intended 
sending  her  to  the  seminary  in  that  village,  I  was  glad, 
and  when  I  saw  her  again  all  my  old  affection  for  her 
returned  with  ten-fold  vigor,  and  the  ardor  of  my  passion 
was  greatly  increased  from  the  fact  that  other  youths  of 
my  age  worshipped  her  too,  toasting  the  Florida  rose,  and 
quoting  her  on  all  occasions.  Griswold  was  one  of  these. 
Dr.  Griswold.  How  deep  his  feelings  were,  I  cannot  tell. 
I  only  know  that  he  has  never  married,  and  he  is  three 
years  older  than  myself.  We  were  room-rnates  in  college, 
and  when  he  saw  that  Nina's  preference  was  for  me,  he 
acted  the  part  of  a  noble,  disinterested  friend.  Few  know 
Griswold  as  he  is." 

Arthur  paused,  and  Edith  fancied  he  was  living  over 
the  past  when  Nina  was  not  as  she  was  now,  but  alas,  he 
was  thinking  what  to  tell  her  next.  Up  to  this  point  he 
had  narrated  the  facts  just  as  they  had  occurred,  but  he 
could  do  so  no  longer.  He  must  leave  out  now  —  evade, 
go  round  the  truth,  and  it  was  hard  for  him  to  do  so. 

"  We  were  engaged,"  he  began  at  last.  "  I  was  eight- 
een, she  fifteen.  But  she  looked  quite  as  old  as  she  does 
now.  Indeed,  she  was  almost  as  far  in  advance  of  her 
years  as  she  is  now  behind  them.  Still  we  had  no  idea 
of  marriage  until  I  had  been  graduated,  although  Nina's 
confidential  friend,  who  was  quite  romantic,  suggested 
that  we  should  run  away.  But  from  this  I  shrank  as  a 
most  foolish  act,  which,  if  divulged,  would  result  in  my 


ABTHTTK'S  STOBY.  139 

being  expelled,  and  this  disgrace  I  could  not  endure.  In 
order,  however,  to  make  the  matter  sure,  I  wrote  to  her 
father,  asking  for  his  daughter  when  I  became  of  age.  • 
Very  impatiently  I  waited  for  his  answer,  which,  when  it 
came,  was  a  positive  refusal,  yet  couched  in  language  so 
kind  that  none  save  a  fool  would  have  been  angiy. 

"'Nina  could  not  marry,'  he  said,  'and  I  must  brer.k 
the  engagement  at  once.  Sometime  he  would  tell  me 
why,  but  not  then  —  not  till  I  was  older.'  " 

"  Accompanying  this  was  a  note  to  Nina,  in  which  he 
used  rather  severer  terms,  forbidding  her  to  think  of  mar- 
riage, and  telling  her  he  was  coming  immediately  to  take 
her  to  Europe,  whither  he  had  long  contemplated  going." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  a  long  blank  was  made 
in  the  story,  which  Arthur  at  last  resumed,  as  follows: 

"  He  came  for  her  sooner  than  we  anticipated,  follow- 
ing close  upon  the  receipt  of  his  letter,  and  in  spite  of 
Nina's  tears  took  her  with  him  to  New  York,  from 
whence  early  in  May  they  started  for  Europe.  That  was 
nine  years  ago  next  month,  and  during  the  vacation  fol- 
lowing I  came  to  Shannondale  and  saw  you,  Edith,  while 
you  saw  Nina's  picture." 

Nina  was  apparently  listening  now,  and  turning  to  him 
she  said,  w  Tell  her  about  the  night  when  I  stepped  on 
your  back  and  so  got  out  of  the  window." 

Arthur's  face  was  crimson,  but  he  answered  laughingly 
u  I  fear  Miggie  will  not  think  us  very  dignified,  if  I  tell 
her  of  all  our  stolen  interviews  and  the  means  used  to 
procure  them." 

Taking  a  new  toy  from  his  pocket  he  gave  it  to  Nina, 
who,  while  examining  it,  forgot  that  night,  and  he  went 
on. 

"I  come  now  to  the  saddest  part  of  my  story.  Nina 
and  T  continued  to  write,  for  her  father  did  not  forbid 
that,  stipulating,  however,  that  he  should  see  the  letters 
which  passed  between  us.  He  had  placed  her  in  a  school 


140  DABKNESS   ANT>   DAYLIGHT. 

at  Paris,  where  she  remained  until  after  I  was  graduated 
and  of  age.  Edith,"  and  Arthur's  voice  trembled,  "  I 
was  too  much  a  boy  to  know  the  nature  of  my  feelinga 
toward  Nina  when  we  were  engaged,  and  as  the  time 
wore  on  my  love  began  to  wane." 

Edith's  heart  beat  more  naturally  ncfw  than  it  had  before 
since  the  narrative  commenced,  but  she  could  not  forbear 
from  saying  to  him,  reproachfully,  "  Oh,  Arthur." 

"It  was  wrong,  I  know,"  he  replied,  "and  I  struggled 
against  it  with  all  my  strength,  particularly  when  I  heard 
that  she  was  coming  home.  Griswold  knew  everything, 
and  he  suggested  that  a  sight  of  her  might  awaken  the 
olden  feeling,  and  with  a  feverish  anxiety  I  waited  in  Bos- 
oon  for  the  steamer  which  I  supposed  was  to  bring  her 
home.  After  many  delays  she  came  in  a  sailing  vessel, 
but  came  alone.  Her  father  had  died  upon  the  voyage 
and  been  buried  in  the  sea,  leaving  her  with  no  friend 
save  a  Mr.  Hudson,  whose  acquaintance  they  had  made 
in  Paris." 

At  the  mention  of  Mr.  Hudson  the  toy  dropped  from 
Nina's  fingers  and  the  blue  eyes  flashed  up  into  Edith's 
face  with  a  more  rational  expression  than  she  had  hereto- 
fore observed  in  them. 

"  What  is  it,  darling  ?  "  she  asked,  as  she  saw  there  was 
something  Nina  would  say. 

The  lip  quivered  like  that  of  a  grieved  child,  while 
Nina  answered  softly,  "I  did  love  Charlie  better  than 
Arthur,  and  it  was  so  wicked." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Arthur  quickly,  "  Nina's  love  for  me 
had  died  away,  and  centered  itself  upon  another.  Charlie 
1  ludson  had  sought  her  for  his  wife,  and  while  confessing 
her  love  for  him  she  insisted  that  she  could  not  be  his, 
because  she  was  bound1  to  me.  This,  however,  did  not 
prevent  his  seeking  an  interview  with  her  father,  who  told 
him  frankly  the  terrible  impediment  to  Nina's  marriage  with 
any  one.  It  was  a  crushing  blow  to  young  Hudson,  but 


ARTHURS    STORY.  141 

he  still  clung  to  her  with  all  a  brother's  devotion,  soothing 
her  grief  upon  the  sea,  and  caring  for  her  tenderly  \intil 
Boston  was  reached,  and  he  placed  her  in  my  hands,  to- 
gether with  a  letter,  which  her  father  wrote  a  few  days 
before  he  died." 

"He's  married  now,"  interrupted  Nina.  "Charlie's 
married,  but  he  came  to  see  me  once,  down  at  the  old 
Asylum,  and  I  saw  him  through  the  grates,  for  I  was  shut 
up  in  a  tantrum.  He  cried,  Miggie,  just  as  Arthur  does 
sometimes,  and  called  me  poor  lost  Nina.  He  held  an 
angel  in  his  arms  with  blue  eyes  like  mine,  and  he  said 
she  was  his  child  and  Margaret's!  Her  name  was  Nina, 
too.  Wasn't  it  nice  ?"  And  she  smiled  upon  Edith,  who 
involuntarily  groaned  as  she  thought  how  dreadful  it  must 
have  been  for  Mr.  Hudson  to  gaze  through  iron  bars  upon 
the  wreck  of  his  early  love. 

"Poor  man,"  she  sighed,  turning  to  Arthur.  "Is  he 
happy  with  his  Margaret ! " 

"  He  seems  to  be,"  said  Arthur.  "  People  can  ontlive 
their  first  affection,  you  know.  He  resides  in  New  York 
now,  and  is  to  all  appearance  a  prosperous,  happy  man. 
The  curse  has  fallen  alone  on  me,  who  alone  deserve  it." 

He  spoke  bitterly,  and  for  a  moment  sat  apparently 
thinkiug ;  then,  resuming  his  story,  said, 

"  I  did  not  open  Mr,  Bernard's  letter  until  we  reached 
the  Revere  House,  and  I  was  alone  in  my  room.  Then  I 
broke  the  seal  and  read,  while  my  blood  curdled  within 
my  veins  and  every  hair  pricked  at  its  roots.  The  old 
man  knew  he  was  about  to  die,  and  confessed  to  me  in 
part  his  manifold  transgressions,  particularly  his  inhuman 
treatment  of  his  last  wife,  the  mother  of  little  Miggie, 
but  as  this  cannot,  of  course,  be  interesting  to  you,  I  will 
not  repeat  it." 

"  Oh,  do,"  exclaimed  Edith,  feeling  somehow  that  any 
thing  concerning  the  mother  of  Miggie  Bernard  would 
interest  her. 


142  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"Well,  then,"  returned  Arthur,  "he  did  not  tell  me 
all  the  circumstances  of  his  marriage.  I  only  know  that 
she  was  a  foreigner  and  very  beautiful  —  a  governess,  too, 
I  think  in  some  German  family,  and  that  he  married  her 
under  an  assumed  name." 

"An  assumed  name!"  Edith  cried.  "Why was  &atj 
pray?" 

"I  hardly  know,"  returned  Arthur,  "but  believe  he 
became  in  some  way  implicated  in  a  fight  or .  gambling 
brawl  in  Paris,  and  being  threatened  with  arrest  took 
another  name  than  his  own,  and  fled  to  Germany  or  Swit- 
zerland, where  he  found  his  wife.  They  were  married 
privately,  and  after  two  or  three  years  he  brought  her  to 
his  Florida  home,  where  his  proud  mother  and  maiden 
sister  affected  to  despise  her*  beceause  of  her  poverty 
He  was  at  that  time  given  to  drinking,  and  almost  ev<-ry 
day  became  beastly  intoxicated,  abusing  his  young  w>  fe 
so  shamefully  that  her  life  became  intolerable,  and  at  last 
when  he  was  once  absent  from  home  for  a  few  weeks,  the 
resolved  upon  going  back  to  Europe,  and  leaving  him 
forever.  This  plan  she  confided  to  a  maid  servant  who 
had  accompanied  her  from  England,  a  resolute,  determined 
woman,  who  arranged  the  whole  so  skillfully  that  no  one 
suspected  their  designs  until  they  were  far  on  their  way 
to  New  York.  The  old  mother,  who  was  then  living, 
vould  not  suffer  them  to  be  pursued,  and  more  than  a 
week  went  by  ere  Mr.  Bernard  learned  what  had  occurred. 
He  followed  them  of  course.  He  was  man  enongh  for 
that,  but  falling  in  with  some  of  his  boon  companions, 
almost  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  city,  he  drank  so  deeply 
that  for  several  days  he  was  unable  to  search  for  them,  and 
in  that  time  both  his  wife  and  Miggie  died." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  St.  Claire,"  and  Edith's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Yes,  both  of  them  died,"  he  continued.  "Mrs.  Ber 
nard's  health  was  greatly  undermined  by  sorrow,  and  when 
a  prevailing  epidemic  fastened  itself  upon  her,  it  found  an 


ABTHUB'S  BTORT.  148 

easy  prey.  The  waiting-maid  wrote  immediately  to 
Florida,  and  her  letter  was  sent  back  to  Mr  Bernard,  who, 
having  become  sobered,  hastened  at  once  to  find  her 
placo  of  abode.  She  was  a  very  intelligent  woman  for 
one  of  her  class,  and  had  taken  the  precaution  to  have 
the  remains  of  her  late  mistress  and  child  deposited  in 
euch  a  manner  that  they  could  easily  be  removed  if  Mr. 
Bernard  should  so  desire  it.  He  did  desire  it,  and  the 
bodies  were  taken  undisturbed  to  Florida,  where  they  now 
rest  quietly,  side  by  side  with  the  proud  mother  and  sis- 
ter, since  deceased.  After  this  Mr.  Bernard  became  a 
changed  and  better  man,  weeping  often  over  the  fate  of 
his  young  girl-wife  and  his  infant  daughter,  whom  he 
greatly  loved.  Other  troubles  he  had,  too,  secret  troubles 
\vhich  he  confided  to  me  in  the  letter  brought  by  Mr. 
Hudson.  After  assuring  me  of  his  esteem  and  telling  me 
how  much  he  should  prefer  me  for  his  son-in-law  to  Char- 
lie Hudson,  he  added  that  in  justice  to  us  both  he  must 
now  speak  of  the  horrible  cloud  hanging  over  his  beauti 
ful  Nina,  and  which  was  sure  at  last  to  envelop  her  in 
darkness.  You  can  guess  it,  Edith.  You  have  guessed 
it  already  —  hereditary  insanity  —  reaching  far  back  into 
the  past,  and  with  each  successive  generation  developing 
itself  earlier  and  in  a  more  violent  form.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  it  when  he  married  Nina's  mother,  a  famous  New 
Orleans  belle,  for  her  father  purposely  kept  it  from  him, 
hoping  thus  to  get  her  off  his  hands  ere  the  malady  man- 
ifested itself. 

"  In  her  case  it  came  on  with  the  birth  of  Nina,  and 
from  that  day  to  her  death  she  was  a  raving,  disgusting 
maniac,  as  her  mother  and  grandmother  had  been  before 
her.  This  was  exceedingly  mortifying  to  the  proud  Ber- 
nards, negroes  and  all,  and  the  utmost  care  was  taken  of 
Nina,  who,  nevertheless,  was  too  much  like  her  mother 
to  hope  for  escape.  There  was  the  same  peculiar  look 
in  the  eye  —  the  same  restless,  nervous  motions,  and  from 


144  DARKNESS   AND   DAYIIGHT. 

her  babyh  od  up  he  knew  his  child  was  doomed  to  chains, 
straight  jackets  and  narrow  cells,  while  the  man  who 
married  her  was  doomed  to  a  still  more  horrible  fate 
These  were  his  very  words,  and  my  heart  stopped  its 
beating  as  I  read,  while  I  involuntarily  thanked  Heaven, 
who  had  changed  her  feelings  towards  me.  She  told  me 
"with  many  tears  that  she  had  ceased  to  love  me,  and  ask- 
ed to  be  released  from  the  fulfillment  of  her  vow.  I 
knew  then  she  would  one  day  be  just  what  she  is,  and  did 
not  think  it  my  duty  to  insist.  But  I  did  not  forsake  her, 
though  my  affection  for  her  then  was  more  like  a  broth- 
er's than  a  lover's.  In  his  will,  which  was  duly  made 
and  witnessed,  Mr.  Bernard  appointed  me  the  guardian 
of  his  child,  empowering  me  to  do  for  her  as  if  she  were 
my  sister,  and  bidding  me  when  the  calamity  should  over- 
take her,  care  for  her  to  the  last. 

" '  They  don't  usually  survive  long,'  he  wrote,  and  he 
made  me  his  next  heir  after  Nina's  death.  It  was  a  great 
charge  for  one  just  twenty-two,  a  young,  helpless  girl 
and  an  immense  fortune  to  look  after;  but  Griswold, 
my  tried  friend,  came  to  my  aid,  and  pointed  out  means 
by  which  a  large  portion  of  the  Bernard  estate  could  be 
turned  into  money,  and  thus  save  me  much  trouble.  I 
followed  his  advice,  and  the  old  homestead  is  all  the  land- 
ed property  there  is  for  me  to  attend  to  now,  and  as  this 
is  under  the  supervision  of  a  competent  overseer,  it 
gives  me  no  uneasiness.  I  suggested  to  Nina  that  she 
should  accompany  me  to  Florida  soon  after  her  arrival 
in  Boston,  but  she  preferred  remaining  for  a  time  in  some 
boarding  school,  and  I  made  arrangements  for  her  to  be 
rccei  red  as  a  boarder  in  Charlestown  Seminary,  leaving 
her  there  while  I  went  South  to  transact  business  incum 
bent  upon  me  as  her  guardian. 

"  How  it  happened  I  never  knew,  but  by  some  accident 
iisr  father's  letter  to  me  became  mixed  up  with  her  pa- 
pare,  aud  while  I  was  gone  she  read  it,  learning  for  the 


AKTHUB'S  STORY.  146 

first  time  what  the  mystery  was  which  hung  over  her 
mother's  fate,  and  also  of  the  doom  awaiting  her.  She 
fainted,  it  was  said,  and  during  the  illness  which  followed 
raved  in  frantic  fury,  suffering  no  one  to  approach  her  save 
Griswold,  who,  being  at  that  time  a  physician  in  the  Lu- 
natic Asylum  at  Worcester,  hastened  to  her  side,  acquir- 
ing over  her  a  singular  power.  It  is  strange  that  in  her 
fita  o  f  violence  she  never  speaks  of  me,  nor  yet  of  Charlie 
Hudson.  Indeed,  the  past  seems  all  a  blank  to  her,  save 
sa  she  refers  to  it  incidentally  as  she  has  to-day." 

"  But  did  she  stay  crazy  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"Not  wholly  so,"  returned  Arthur,  "but  from  that 
time  her  reason  began  to  fail,  until  now  she  is  hopelessly 
insane,  and  has  not  known  a  rational  moment  for  more 
than  three  years." 

"  Nor  been  home  in  all  that  time  ?  "  said  Edith,  whUa 
Arthur  replied, 

"  She  would  not  go.  She  seemed  to  shrink  from  meet- 
ing her  former  friends ;  and  at  last,  acting  upon  Griswold's 
advice,  I  placed  her  in  the  Asylum,  going  myself  hither 
and  thither  like  a  feather  tossed  about  by  the  gale.  Gris- 
wold was  my  ballast,  my  polar  star,  and  when  he  said  to 
me,  buy  a  house  and  have  a  home,  I  answered  that  I 
would ;  and  when  he  told  me  of  Grassy  Spring,  bidding 
me  purchase  it,  I  did  so,  although  I  dreaded  coming  to 
this  neighborhood  of  all  others.  I  had  carefully  kept 
everything  from  Grace,  who,  while  hearing  that  I  was  in 
some  way  interested  in  a  Florida  estate,  knew  none  of 
the  particulars,  and  I  became  morbidly  jealous  lest  she  or 
any  one  else  should  hear  of  Nina's  misfortune,  or  what 
she  was  to  me. 

"It  was  a  favorite  idea  of  Griswold's  that  Nina  might 
be  benefitted  by  a  change  of  place,  and  when  I  first  came 
hei  e  1  knew  that  she,  too,  would  follow  me  in  due  time. 
She  has  hitherto  been  subject  to  violent  attacks  of  fren- 
zy, during  which  nothing  within  her  reach  was  safe ;  and, 
7 


146  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

knowing  this,  Griswold  advised  me  to  prepare  a  room, 
where,  at  such  times,  she  could  be  kept  by  herself,  for  the 
sight  of  people  always  made  her  worse.  The  Den,  with 
the  large  closet  adjoining,  was  the  result  of  this  sugges- 
tion,  and  as  I  have  a  great  dread  of  neighborhood  gossip, 
I  resolved  to  say  nothing  of  her  until  compelled  to  do  so 
by  her  presence  in  the  house.  I  fancied  that  Mrs.  John- 
son was  a  discreet  woman,  and  my  purpose  was  to  tell 
her  of  Nina  as  soon  as  I  was  fairly  settled ;  but  she  abused 
her  trust  by  letting  Grace  into  the  room.  You  refused 
to  enter,  and  my  respect  for  you  from  that  moment  was 
unbounded." 

She  looked  at  him  in  much  surprise,  and  he  added, 

"You  wonder,  I  suppose,  how  I  know  this.  I  was 
here  at  the  time,  was  in  the  next  room  when  you  came 
into  the  library  to  wait  for  Grace.  I  watched  you  through 
the  glass  door,  wondering  who  you  were,  until  my  cousin 
appeared  and  I  overheard  the  whole." 
-  "  And  that  is  why  you  chose  me  instead  of  Grace  to 
take  charge  of  your  keys,"  interrupted  Edith,  beginning 
to  comprehend  what  had  heretofore  been  strange  to  her. 
«  But,  Mr.  St.  Claire,  I  don't  understand  it  at  all  —  don't 
see  why  there  was  any  need  for  so  much  secrecy.  Sup- 
posing you  did  dread  neighborhood  gossip,  you  could  not 
help  being  chosen  Nina's  guardian.  She  could  not  help 
being  crazy.  Why  not  have  told  at  once  that  there  was 
such  a  pei-son  under  your  charge?  Wouldn't  it  have 
been  better?  It  was  no  disgrace  to  you  that  you  have 
kept  the  Bather's  trust,  and  cared  for  his  poor  child,"  and 
she  glanced  lovingly -at  the  pretty  face  nestled  against 
her  arm,  for  Nina  had  fallen  asleep. 

Arthur  did  not  answer  immediately,  and  when  he  did, 
his  voice  trembled  with  emotion. 

"  It  would  have  been  better,"  he  said ;  "  but  when  she 
first  became  insane,  I  shrank  from  having  it  generally 
known,  and  the  longer  I  hugged  the  secret  the  harder  I 


ABTHUR  S   STORY  147 

found  it  to  divulge  the  whole.  It  would  look  queerly,  I 
thought,  for  a  young  man  like  roe  to  be  traraelled  with  a 
crazy  girl.  Nobody  would  believe  she  was  my  ward,  and 
nothing  more,  and  I  became  a  sort  of  monomaniac  upon 
the  subject.  Had  I  never  loved  her-—"  he  paused,  and 
leaned  his  head  upon  his  bauds,  while  Edith,  bending 
upon  him  a  most  searching  look,  startled  him  with  the 
words,  "  Mr.  St.  Claire,  you  have  not  told  me  all.  There 
is  something  behind,  something  mightier  than  pride  or  a 
dread  of  gossip. 

"Yes,  Edith,  there  is  something  behind,  but  I  can't 
tell  you  what  it  is,  you  of  all  others." 

He  was  pacing  the  floor  hurriedly  now,  but  stopped 
suddenly,  and  standing  before  Edith,  said :  "  Edith  Has- 
tings, you  are  somewhat  to  blame  in  this  matter.  Before 
I  knew  you  I  only  shrank  from  having  people  talk  of  my 
matters  sooner  than  was  absolutely  necessary.  But  after 
you  became  my  pupil,  the  desire  that  you  should  never 
see  Nina  as  she  is,  grew  into  a  species  of  madness,  and  1 
have  bent  every  energy  to  keeping  you  apart.  I  did  not 
listen  to  reason,  which  told  me  you  must  know  of  it 
sooner  or  later,  but  plunged  deeper  and  deeper  i  ito  a 
labyrinth  of  attempted  concealment.  When  I  found  it 
necessary  to  dismiss  Mrs.  Johnson,  if  I  would  keep  my 
affairs  to  myself,  I  thought  of  the  old  family  servants  at 
Sunnybank.  I  knew  they  loved  and  pitied  Nina,  and 
were  very  sensitive  with  regard  to  her  misfortune.  It 
touches  Phillis's  pride  to  think  her  young  mistress  is 
crazy,  and  as  hers  is  the  ruling  mind,  she  keeps  the  others 
in  subjection,  though  old  Judy  came  near  disclosing  the 
whole  to  you  at  one  time,  I  believe.  You  know  her  sad 
story  now,  but  you  do  not  know  how  like  an  iron  weight 
it  hangs  upon  me,  crushing  me  to  the  earth,  wearing  my 
life  away,  and  making  me  old  before  my  time.  See  here," 
and  lifting  his  brown  locks,  he  show  3d  her  many  a  line  of 
(silver  "  If  I  loved  Nina  Bernard,  my  burden  would  be 
easJei  to  bear." 


148  DAKKNESS   AOT>    DAYLIGHT. 

"Oh,  Mr.  St.  Claire,"  interrupted  Edith,  "You  surely 
do  love^her.  You  cannot  help  loving  her,  and  she  so 
b<  autiful,  so  innocent." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "as  a  brother  loves  an  unfortu- 
nate sister.  I  feel  towards  her,  I  think,  as  a  mother  does 
towards  a  helpless  child,  a  tender  pity  which  prompts  me 
to  bear  with  her  even  when  she  tries  me  almost  beyond 
endurance.  She  is  not  always  as  mild  as  you  see  her  now, 
though  her  frenzied  moods  do  not  occur  as  frequently  as 
they  did.  She  loves  me,  I  think,  as  an  infant  loves  its 
mother,  and  is  better  when  I  am  with  her.  At  all  events, 
since  coming  to  Grassy  Spring,  she  has  been  unusually 
quiet,  until  within  the  last  two  weeks,  when  a  nervous 
fever  has  confined  her  to  her  room  and  made  her  some- 
what unmanagable.  Griswold  said  she  would  be  better 
here,  and  though  I  had  not  much  faith  in  the  experiment, 
I  see  now  that  he  was  right.  Griswold  is  always  right 
and  had  I  followed  his  advice  years  ago,  much  of  my 
trouble  might  have  been  averted.  Edith,  never  conceal  a 
single  act,  if  you  wish  to  be  happy.  A  little  fault,  if 
covered  up,  grows  into  a  mountain ;  and  the  longer  it  is 
hidden,  the  harder  it  is  to  be  confessed.  This  is  my 
experience.  There  was  a  false  step  at  first,  and  it  lies  too 
far  back  in  the  past  to  be  remedied  now.  No  one  knows 
of  it  but  myself,  Griswold,  Nina,  and  ,my  God.  Yes, 
there  is  one  more  whose  memory  might  be  refreshed,  but 
I  now  have  no  fear  of  him." 

Edith  did  not  ask  who  this  other  was,  neither  did  she 
dream  that  Richard  Harrington  was  in  any  way  connect- 
ed with  the  mystery.  She  thought  of  him,  however, 
wondering  if  she  might  tell  him  of  Nina,  and  asking  if 
§ae  could. 

Arthur's  face  was  very  white,  as  he  replied,  "  Tell  him 
if  you  like,  or  any  one  else.  It  is  needless  to  keep  it  long« 
er,  but,  Edith,  you'll  come  again,  won't  you?  come  to 
see  Nina  if  nothing  more.  I  am  glad  you  have  seen  her, 
provided  you  do  not  desert  me  wholly." 


ARTHUR'S  STOBY.  145 

"  Of  course  I  shall  not,"  she  said,  as  she  laid  the  golden 
head  of  the  sleeping  girl  upon  the  cushion  of  the  sofa^ 
preparatory  to  leaving,  "I'll  come  again,  and  forgive  yo.u« 
too,  for  anything  you  may  have  done,  except  a  wrong  to 
her ;  and  she  carefully  kissed  the  poor,  crazy  Xina. 

Then,  offering  her  hand  to  Arthur  she  tried  to  bid  him 
good-bye  as  of  old,  but  he  missed  something  in  her  man- 
ner, and  with  feelings  sadly  depressed  he  watched  her 
from  the  window,  as,  assisted  by  Ike,  she  mounted  her 
pony  and  galloped  swiftly  away. 

"  She's  lost  to  me  forever,  and  there's  notliing  wort! 
living  for  now,"  he  said,  just  as  a  little  hand  pressed  his 
arm,  and  a  sweet  childish  voice  murmured,  "Yes,  there 
is,  Aithur.  Live  for  Nina,  poor  Nina,"  and  the  snowy 
fingers,  which,  for  a  moment,  had  rested  lightly  on  his 
arm,  began  to  play  with  the  buttons  of  his  coat,  while  the 
soft  blue  eyes  looked  pleadingly  into  his. 

"  Yes,  darling ;  he  said,  caressing  her  flowing  curls,  and 
pushing  them  back  from  her  forehead,  "  I  will  live  for  you, 
hereafter.  I  will  love  no  one  else." 

"  Xo  one  but  Miggie.  You  may  love  her.  You  must 
love  her,  Arthur.  She's  so  beautiful,  so  grand,  why  has 
she  gone  from  Xina,  I  want  her  here,  want  her  all  the 
time;"  and  Xina's  mood  began  to  change. 

Tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  burying  her  face  in  Arthur's 
bosom  she  begged  him  to  go  after  Miggie,  to  bring  her 
back  and  keep  her  there  always,  threatening  that  if  he 
did'nt  "  Nina  would  be  bad." 

Tenderly,  but  firmly,  as  a  parent  soothes  a  refractory 
child,  did  Arthur  soothe  the  excitable  Nina,  telling  he* 
Miggie  should  come  again,  or  if  she  did  not,  they'd  go  up 
aud  see  her. 


15C  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

CHAPTER  XVH. 

NINA  AND   MIGGIB. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  Edith's  feelings 
as  she  rode  toward  home.  She  knew  Arthur  had  not 
told  her  the  whole,  and  that  the  part  omijbted  was  the 
most  important  of  all.  What  could  it  be  ?  She  thought 
of  a  thousand  different  things,  but  dismissed  them  one 
after  another  from  her  mind  as  too  preposterous  to  be 
cherished  for  a  moment.  Tho  terrible  reality  never  once 
occurred  to  her,  else  her  heart  had  not  beaten  as  lightly 
as  it  did,  in  spite  of  the  strange  story  she  had  heard.  She 
was  glad  that  she  had  met  with  Nina  —  glad  that  every 
obstacle  to  their  future  intercourse  was  removed  —  and 
while  she  censured  Arthur  much  she  pitied  him  the  more> 
and  scolded  herself  heartily  for  feeling  so  comfortable  ard 
satisfied  because  he  had  ceased  to  love  the  unfortunate 
Nina. 

"  I  can't  blame  him  for  not  wishing  to  be  talked  about," 
she  said.  "  Shannondale  is  a  horribly  gossipping  place, 
and  people  would  have  surmised  everything;  but  the 
sooner  they  know  it  now  the  sooner  it  will  die  away. 
Let  me  think.  Who  will  be  likely  to  spread  the  news 
most  industriously  ?  " 

Suddenly  remembering  Mrs.  Eliakim  Rogers,  the  busi- 
est gossip  in  town,  she  turned  Bedouin  in  the  direction 
of  the  low  brown  house,  standing  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  road,  and  was  soon  seated  in  Mrs.  Eliakim's  kitchen, 
her  ostensible  errand  being  to  inquire  about  some  plain 
gewing  the  good  lady  was  doing  for  her,  while  her  real 
object  was  to  communicate  as  much  of  Arthur's  story  aa 
she  thought  proper.  Incidentally  she  spoke  of  Mr.  St. 
Claire,  and  when  the  widow  asked  "  What  under  the  sun 


A2O>    MJGGIK.  151 

possessed  him  to  live  as  he  did,"  she  replied  by  telling  o* 
jY?/kr,  his  ward,  who,  she  said,  had  recently  come  to 
Grassy  Spring  from  the  Asylum,  adding  a  few  items  as  to 
how  Arthur  chanced  to  be  her  guardian,  talking  as  if  she 
had  known  of  it  all  the  time,  and  saying  she  did  not  won- 
der that  a  young  man  like  him  should  shrink  from  having 
it  generally  understood  that  he  had  a  crazy  girl  upon  his 
hands.  He  was  very  kind  to  her  indeed,  and  no  brother 
could  treat  his  sister  more  tenderly  than  he  treated  Nina. 

To  every  thing  she  said,  Mrs.  Eliakim  smilingly  assent- 
ed, drawing  her  own  conclusions  the  while  and  feeling 
vastly  relieved  when,  at  last,  her  visitor  departed,  leaving 
her  at  liberty  to  don  her  green  calash  and  start  for  the 
neighbors  with  this  precious  morsel  of  gossip.  Turning 
back,  Edith  saw  her  hurrying  across  the  fields,  and  knew 
it  would  not  be  long  ere  all  Shannondale  were  talking  of 
Arthur's  ward. 

Arrived  at  home  she  found  the  dinner  waiting  for  her, 
and  when  asked  by  Richard  what  had  kept  her  she  replied 
by  repeating  to  him  in  substance  what  she  had  already 
told  Mrs.  Eliakim  Rogers.  There  was  this  difference 
however,  between  the  two  stories  —  the  one  told  to  Rich- 
ard was  longer  and  contained  more  cf  the  particulars. 
She  did  not,  however,  tell  him  of  Arthur's  love  for  Nina, 
or  of  the  neglected  wife,  the  mother  of  little  Miggie, 
though  why  she  withheld  that  part  of  the  story  she  could 
not  tell.  She  felt  a  strange  interest  in  that  young  mother 
dying  alone  in  the  noisome  city,  and  in  the  little  child 
buried  upon  her  bosom,  but  she  had  far  rather  talk  of 
Nina  and  her  marvellous  beauty,  feeling  sure  that  she  had 
at  least  one  interested  auditor,  Victor,  who  was  perfectly 
delighted  to  have  the  mystery  of  Grassy  Spring  unrav 
oiled,  though  he  felt  a  little  disappointed  that  it  shorn* 
amount  to  nothing  more  than  a  crazy  girl,  to  whom  Mr 
St.  Claire  was  guardian. 

This  feeling  of  Victor  was  in  a  great  measure  shared 


152  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

by  the  villagers,  and,  indeed,  after  a  day  or  two  of  talking 
and  wondering,  the  general  opinion  seemed  to  be  that 
Arthur  had  magnified  the  evil  and  been  altogether  too 
much  afraid  of  Madam  Rumor,  who  was  inclined  to  be 
rather  lenient  toward  him,  particularly  as  Edith  Hastings 
took  pains  to  tell  how  kind  he  was  to  Nina,  who  gave 
him  oftentimes  so  much  trouble.  The  tide  of  popular 
feeling  was  in  his  favor,  and  the  sympathy  which  many 
openly  expressed  for  him  was  like  a  dagger  to  the  young 
man,  who  knew  he  did  not  deserve  it.  Still  he  was  re- 
lieved of  a  great  burden,  and  was  far  happier  than  he  had 
been  before,  and  even  signified  to  Grace  his  willingness 
to  mingle  in  society  and  see  company  at  his  own  house. 
The  consequence  of  this  was  throngs  of  visitors  at  Grassy 
Spring,  said  visitors  always  asking  for  Mr.  St.  Claire,  but 
caring  really  to  see  Nina,  who  shrank  from  their  advances, 
and  hiding  herself  in  her  room  refused  at  last  to  go  down 
unless  Miggie  were  there. 

Miggie  had  purposely  absented  herself  from  Grassy 
Spring  more  than  two  whole  weeks,  and  when  Richard 
asked  the  cause  of  it  she  answered  that  she  did  not  know, 
and,  indeed,  she  could  not  to  herself  define  the  reason  ol 
her  staying  so  long  from  a  place  where  she  wished  so 
much  to  be,  unless  it  were  that  she  had  not  quite  recover- 
ed from  the  shock  it  gave  her  to  know  that  Arthur  had 
once  been  engaged,  even  though  he  had  wearied  of  the 
engagement.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  built  between 
them  a  barrier  which  she  determined  he  should  be  the 
first  to  cross.  So  she  studiously  avoided  him,  and  thus 
unconsciously  plunged  him  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
mire,  where  he  was  already  foundering.  Her  apparent 
indifference  orJy  increased  the  ardor  of  his  affection,  and 
though  he  struggled  against  it  as  against  a  deadly  sin,  he 
oould  not  overcome  it,  and  at  last  urged  on  by  Nina,  who 
begged  so  hard  for  Miggie,  he  resolved  upon  going  to 
Collingwood  and  taking  Nina  with  him. 


NINA   AND   MIGGTE.  XtV»J 

It  was  a  warm,  pleasant  afternoon  in  Maj  and  Nina 
had  never  looked  more  beautiful  than  when  seated  in  th« 
open  carriage,  and  on  her  way  to  Collingwood,  talking 
incessantly  of  Miggie,  whom  she  espied  long  before  they 
reached  the  house.  It  was  a  most  joyful  meeting  between 
the  two  young  girls,  Nina  clinging  to  Edith  as  if  fearful 
of  Dosing  her  again,  if  by  chance  she  should  release  her 
hold. 

Arthur  did  not  tell  Edith  how  much  he  had  missed  her, 
but  Nina  did,  and  when  she  saw  the  color  deepen  on 
Edith's  cheeks  she  added,  "  You  love  him,  don't  you, 
Miggie  ?  " 

"I" love  every  body,  I  hope,"  returned  the  blushing 
Edith,  as  she  led  her  guests  into  the  room  where  Richard 
was  sitting. 

At  sight  of  the  blind  man  Nina  started,  and  clasping  her 
hands  together,  stood  regarding  him  fixedly,  while  a  look 
of  perplexity  deepened  upon' her  face. 

"  Speak  to  her,  Edith,"  whispered  Arthur,  but  ere  Edith 
could  comply  with  his  request,  Nina's  lips  parted  and  she 
said,  "  You  did  do  it,  didrft  you  ?  " 

"  Whose  voice  was  that?"  and  Richard  started  forward: 

It's  Nina,  Mr.  Harrington ;  pretty  Nina  Bernard ;  and 
Edith  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  She  has  a  sweet,  familiar  voice,"  said  Richard.  "  Come 
to  me,  little  one,  will  you  ?  " 

He  evidently  thought  her  a  child,  for  in  her  statement 
Edith  had  not  mentioned  her  age,  and  Richard  had  some- 
how received  the  impression  that  she  was  very  joung 
It  suited  Nina  to  be  thus  addressed,  and  she  went  readily 
to  Richard,  who  pressed  her  soft,  warm  hands,  and  tten 
.telling  her  playfully  that  he  wished  to  know  how  she 
looked,  passed  his  own  hand  slowly  over  her  face  and  hair, 
caressing  the  latter  and  twining  one  of  the  curls  around  his 
fingers ;  then,  winding  his  arm  about  her  slender  waist, 
he  asked  how  eld  she  was. 


loi  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

"Fifteen  years  and  a  half?  was  her  prompt  reply. 

Richard,  never  thought  of  doubting  her  word.  She 
was  very  slight  indeed.  "A  little  morsel,"  he  called  her,, 
and  as  neither  Arthur  nor  Edith  corrected  the  mistake, 
he  was  suffered  to  think  of  Nina  Bernard  as  one,  who, 
H  ere  she  rational,  would  be  a  mere  school-girl  yet. 

She  puzzled  him  greatly,  and  more  than  once  he  started 
at  some  peculiar  intonation  of  her  voice. 

"  Little  Snowdrop,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  it  seems  to  me  I 
have  known  you  all  my  life.  Look  at  me,  and  say  if  we 
have  met  before  ?  " 

Edith  was  too  intent  upon  Nina's  answer  to  notice 
Arthur,  and  she  failed  to  see  the  spasm  of  pain  and  feai 
which  passed  over  his  face,  leaving  it  paler  than  its  wont. 
Bending  over  Nina  he  waited  like  Edith  while  she  scanned 
Richard  curiously,  and  then  replied,  "  Never,  unless  you 
are  the  one  that  did  it  —  are  you  ?  " 

"Did  what?"  asked  Richard,  and  while  Nina  hesitated, 
Arthur  replied,  "  She  has  a  fancy  that  somebody  made 
her  crazy." 

u  Not  I,  oh,  no,  not  I,  poor  little  dove.  I  did  not  do  it, 
sure,"  and  Richard  smoothed  the  yellow  curls  resting  on» 
his  knee. 

"  Who  was  it,  then  ?  "  persisted  Nina.  "  He  was  tall, 
like  you,  and  dark  and  handsome,  wasn't  he  Arthur? 
You  know  —  you  were  there  ?  "  and  she  turned  appealing- 
ly  to  the  young  man,  whose  heart  beat  so  loudly  as  to  be 
plainly  audible  to  himself. 

"It  was  Charlie  Hudson,  perhaps,"  suggested  Edith, 
and  Arthur  mentally  blessed  her  for  a  remark  which 
turned  the  channel  of  Nina's  thoughts,  and  set  her  to  tell- 
ing Richard  how  Charlie  cried  when  he  saw  her  through 
the  iron  bars,  wearing  that  queer-looking  gown. 

"  I  danced  for  him  with  all  my  might,"  she  said,  "  and 
sang  so  loud,  for  I  thought  it  would  make  him  laugh  as  it 
did  the  folks  around  me,  but  he  only  cried  the  harder. 


NLSTA   AND    JIIGGEE.  155 

Wliat  made  him?"  and  she  looked  up  wistft^y  in  Rich 
ard's  face.  "  You  are  crying,  too  !  n  she  ex  claimed. 
"  Everybody  cries  where  I  am.  Why  do  they  ?  1  wish 
they  wouldn't.  I'm  good  to-day  —  there,  please  don't, 
Mr.  Big-man,  that  did  do  it"  and  raising  her  waxen  hand 
she  brushed  away  the  tear  trembling  on  Richard's  long 
eyelashes. 

Edith  now  sought  to  divert  her  by  asking  if  she  were 
fond  of  music,  and  would  like  to  hear  her  play. 

"  Xina'll  play,"  returned  the  little  maiden,  and  going 
to  the  piano  she  dashed  off  a  wild,  impassioned,  mixed-up 
impromptu,  resembling  now  the  soft  notes  of  the  lute  or 
the  plaintive  sob  of  the  winter  wind,  and  then  swelling 
into  a  full,  rich,  harmonious  melody,  which  made  the 
blood  chill  in  Edith's  veins,  and  caused  both  Richard  and 
Arthur  to  hold  their  breath. 

The  music  ceased,  and  rising  from  the  stool  Nina  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  go  home,  insisting  that  Edith  should 
go  with  her  and  stay  all  night. 

"  I  want  to  sleep  with  my  arms  around  your  neck  just 
like  you  used  to  do,"  she  said;  and  when  Arthur,  too, 
joined  in  the  request,  Edith  answered  that  she  would  if 
Richard  were  willing. 

"And  sleep  with  a  lunatic,  —  is  it  quite  safe?"  he 
asked. 

"  Perfectly  so,"  returned  Arthur,  adding  that  the  house 
was  large  enough,  and  Edith  could  act  her  own  pleasure 
vith  regard  to  sleeping  apartments. 

"  Then  it's  settled  that  I  may  go,"  chimed  in  Edith, 
^uite  as  much  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  a  long  eve- 
uiQg  with  Arthur,  as  with  the  idea  of  seeing  more  of 


She  knew  she  was  leaving  Richard  very  lonely,  but  she 
promised  to  be  home  early  on  the  morrow,  and  bidding 
good-bye,  followed  Arthur  and  Nina  to  the  carriage. 

Nina  was  delighted  to  have  Edith  with  her,  and  aft«i 


156  DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 

their  arrival  at  Grassy  Spring,  danced  and  skipped  aboni 
the  house  like  a  gay  butterfly,  pausing  every  few  mo- 
ments to  wind  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  guest, 
whom  she  kissed  repeatedly,  calling  her  always  Miggie^ 
and  telling  her  how  much  she  loved  her. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  you  as  you  used  to  be  ?  "  she 
asked  suddenly.  "  If  you  do,  come  up,  —  come  to  my 
room.  She  may  ? "  and  she  turned  toward  Arthur,  who 
answered,  "certainly,  I  will  go  myself,"  and  the  three 
soon  stood  at  the  door  of  the  Den. 

It  was  Edith's  first  visit  there,  and  a  feeling  of  awe  came 
over  her  as  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  mysterious 
room.  Then  a  cry  of  joyful  surprise  burst  from  her  lips 
as  she  saw  how  pleasant  it  was  in  there,  and  how  taste- 
fully the  chamber  was  fitted  up.  Not  another  apartment 
in  the  house  could  compare  with  it,  and  Edith  felt  that 
she  could  be  happy  there  all  her  life,  were  it  not  for  the 
iron  lattice,  which  gave  it  somewhat  the  appearance  of  a 
prison. 

"  Here  you  are,"  cried  Nina,  dragging  her  across  the 
floor  to  the  portrait  of  the  little  child  which  had  so  inter- 
ested her  during  Arthur's  absence.  "  This  is  she  —  this 
is  you,  —  this  is  Miggie,"  and  Nina  jumped  up  and  down, 
while  Edith  gazed  again  upon  the  sweet  baby  face  she 
had  once  seen  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  There  is  a  slight  resemblance  between  you,"  said  Ar- 
thur, glancing  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Had  she  lived, 
her  eyes  must  have  been  like  yours ;  but  look,  this  was 
Nina's  father." 

Edith  did  not  answer  him.  Indeed,  she  scarcely  knew 
what  he  was  saying,  for  a  nameless  fascination  chained 
her  to  the  spot,  a  feeling  as  if  she  were  beholding  her 
other  self,  as  if  she  had  leaped  backward  many  years,  and 
was  seated  again  upon  the  nursery  floor  like  the  child 
before  her.  Like  gleams  of  lightning,  confused  memories 
of  the  past  came  rushing  over  her  only  to  pass  away, 


NOT  A   ANT)   MIGGEE.  157 

leaving  her  in  deeper  darkness.  One  thought,  however 
like  a  blinding  flash  caused  her  brain  to  reel,  while  sha 
grasped  Arthur's  arm,  exclaiming,  "Are  you  sure  the 
baby  died  —  sure  she  was  buried  with  her  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  perfectly  sure,"  was  Arthur's  reply,  and  with  the 
sensation  of  disappointment,  Edith  turned  at  last  from 
Migoie  to  the  contemplation  of  the  father ;  the  Mr  Ber- 
nard whom  she  was  not  greatly  disposed  to  like. 

He  was  a  portly,  handsome  man,  but  his  face  showed 
traces  of  early  debauchery  and  later  dissipation.  Still, 
Edith  was  far  more  interested  in  him  than  in  the  portrait 
of  Nina's  mother,  the  light-haired,  blue-eyed  woman,  so 
much  like  the  daughter  that  the  one  could  easily  be 
recognized  from  its  resemblance  to  the  other. 

"Where  is  the  second  Mrs.  Bernard's  picture?"  she 
asked,  and  Arthur  answered,  "  It  was  never  taken,  but 
Phillis  declares  you  are  like  her,  and  this  accounts  for 
Nina's  pertinacity  in  calling  you  Miggie." 

The  pictures  were  by  this  time  duly  examined,  and  then 
Nina,  still  playing  the  part  of  hostess,  showed  to  Edith 
every  thing  of  the  least  interest  until  she  came  to  the 
door,  leading  into  the  large  square  closet. 

tt  Open  it,  please,"  she  whispered  to  Arthur.  "Let  Mig- 
gie see  where  Nina  stays  when  she  tears." 

Arthur  unlocked  the  door,  and  Edith  stepped  with  a 
shudder  into  the  solitary  cell  which  had  witnessed  more 
than  one  wild  revel,  and  echoed  to  more  than  one  deli- 
rious shriek. 

"Is  it  necessary?"  she  asked,  and  Arthur  replied: 
"  We  think  so ;  otherwise  she  would  demolish  every  thing 
\»  ithin  her  reach,  and  throw  herself  from  the  window  it 
Eiay  be." 

"  Thafs  so?  said  Nina,  nodding  approvingly.  "When 
Fm  bad,  I  have  to  tear.  It  cures  my  head,  and  I'm  so 
strong  then,  that  it  takes  Phillis  and  Arthur  both  to  put 
that  gown  on  me.  I  can't  tear  that,"  and  she  pointed  to 


J58  I>AIiKJvfESS    A_NI>  DAYLIGHT. 


a  loose  sacque-like  garment,  made  of  the  heaviest  possible 
material,  and  hanging  upon  a  nail  near  the  door  of  the 
ceil. 

"  Have  you  been  shut  up  since  you  came  here  ?  "  Edith 
inquired,  and  Nina  rejoined.  "Once;  didn't  you  hear 
me  scream  ?  "  Phillis  tried  to  make  me  quit,  but  J  told 
her  I  wouldn't  unless  they'd  let  you  come.  I  saw  you  on 
the  walk,  you  know.  I'm  better  with  you,  Miggie;  a 
ibeap  better  since  you  made  me  cry.  It  took  a  world  of 
hardness  and  pain  away,  and  my  head  has  not  ached  a 
single  time  since  then.  I'm  most  well  ;  ain't  I,  Arthur." 

"  Miss  Hastings  certainly  has  a  wonderful  influence  over 
you,"  returned  Arthur,  and  as  the  evening  wore  away, 
Edith  began  to  think  so,  too. 

Even  the  servants  commented  upon  the  change  in  Nina, 
who  appeared  so  natural  and  lady-like,  that  once  there 
darted  across  Arthur's  mind  the  question,  "  what  if  her 
reason  should  be  restored  !  I  will  do  right,  Heaven  help- 
ing me,"  he  moaned  mentally,  for  well  he  knew  that 
Nina  sane  would  require  of  him  far  different  treatment 
from  what  Nina  crazy  did.  It  was  late  that  night  when 
they  parted,  he  to  his  lonely  room  where  for  hours  he 
paced  the  floor  with  feverish  disquiet,  while  Edith  went 
from  choice  with  Nina  to  the  Den,  determined  to  share 
her  single  bed,  and  smiling  at  her  own  foolishness  when 
once  a  shadow  of  fear  crept  into  her  heart.  How  could 
she  be  afraid  of  the  gentle  creature,  who,  in  her  snowy 
night  dress,  with  her  golden  hair  falling  about  her  face 
and  neck,  looked  like  some  beautiful  angel  flitting  about 
the  room,  pretending  to  arrange  this  and.  that,  casting 
hall  bashful  glances  at  Edith,  who  was  longer  in  disrobing 
and  at  last,  as  if  summoning  all  her  courage  for  the  act, 
stepping  behind  the  thin  lace  window  curtains,  which  she 
drew  around  her,  saying  softly,  "  don't  look  at  me,  Miggie, 
will  you,  'cause  I'm  going  to  pray." 

Instantly  the  brush  which  Edith  held  was  stayed  amid 


NINA  AND   MIGGIE.  159 

her  raven  hair,  and  the  hot  tears  rained  over  her  face  aa 
she  listened  to  that  prayer,  that  God  would  keep  Nina 
from  tearing  any  more,  and  not  let  Arthur  cry,  but  make 
it  all  come  right  some  time  with  him  and  Miggie,  too. 
Then  followed  that  simple  petition,  "  now  I  lay  me  down 
to  sleep,"  learned  at  the  mother's  knee  by  so  many  thou 
gand  children  whose  graves  like  hillocks  in  the  church 
yard  lie,  and  when  she  arose  and  came  from  behind  the 
gauzy  screen  where  she  fancied  she  had  been  hidden  from 
view,  Edith  was  not  wrong  in  thinking  that  something  like 
the  glory  of  Heaven  shone  upon  her  pure  white  brow.  All 
dread  of  her  was  gone,  and  when  Sophy  came  in,  offering 
to  sleep  upon  the  floor  as  was  her  usual  custom,  she 
promptly  declined,  for  she  would  rather  be  alone  with 
Nina. 

Edith  had  never  been  intimate  with  any  girl  of  htr 
own  age,  and  to  her  it  was  a  happiness  entirely  new,  the 
nestling  down  in  the  narrow  bed  with  a  loved  companion 
whose  arms  wound  themselves  caressingly  around  her 
neck,  and  whose  lips  touched  hers  many  times,  whispering, 
"  Bless  you,  Miggie,  bless  you,  precious  sister,  you  can't 
begin  to  guess  how  much  I  love  you.  Neither  can  I  tell 
you.  Why,  it  would  take  me  till  morning." 

It  became  rather  tiresome  after  a  time  being  kept  awake, 
and  fearing  lest  she  would  talk  till  morning,  Edith  said 
to  her. 

*  I  shall  go  home  if  you  are  not  more  quiet." 

There  was  something  in  Edith's  voice  which  prompted 
tin;  crazy  girl  to  obey,  and  with  one  more  assurance  of 
love  she  turned  to  her  pillow,  and  Edith  knew  by  her 
soft,  regular  breathing,  that  her  troubles  were  forgotten. 

**  I  hardly  think  you'll  care  to  repeat  the  experiment 
again,"  Arthur  said  to  Edith  next  morning,  when  he  met 
her  at  the  table,  and  saw  that  she  looked  rather  weary. 
tt  Nina,  I  fear,  was  troublesome,  as  Sophy  tells  me  aha 
often  is." 


160  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Edith  denied  Nina's  having  troubled  her  much.  Still 
she  felt  that  she  preferred  her  own  cozy  bed-chamber  to 
Nina's  larger,  handsomer  room,  and  would  not  promise  to 
spend  another  night  at  Grassy  Spring,  although  she  ex- 
pressed her  willingness  to  resume  her  drawing  lessons, 
and  suggested  that  Nina,  too,  should  become  a  pupil. 
Arthur  would  much  rather  have  had  Edith  all  to  himself 
for  he  knew  that  Nina's  presence  would  be  a  restraint 
upon  him,  but  it  was  right,  and  he  consented  as  the  only 
means  of  having  Edith  back  again  in  her  old  place,  fan- 
cying that  when  he  had  her  there  it  would  be  the  same 
as  before.  But  he  was  mistaken,  for  when  the  lessons 
were  resumed,  he  found  there  was  something  between 
them,  —  something  which  absorbed  Edith's  mind,  and 
was  to  him  a  constant  warning  and  rebuke.  Did  he 
bend  so  near  Edith  at  her  task,  that  his  brown  locks 
touched  her  blacker  braids,  a  shower  of  golden  curls  was 
sure  to  mingle  with  the  twain,  as  Nina  also  bent  her  down 
to  see  what  he  was  looking  at.  Did  the  hand  which 
sometimes  guided  Edith's  pencil  ever  retain  the  fingers 
longer  than  necessary,  a  pair  of  deep  blue  eyes  looked 
into  his,  not  reproachfully,  for  Nina  could  not  fathom  the 
meaning  of  what  she  saw,  but  with  an  expression  of 
childlike  trust  and  confidence  far  more  potent  than  frowns 
and  jealous  tears  would  have  been.  Nina  was  in  Arthur's 
way,  but  not  in  Edith's,  and  half  the  pleasure  she  expe- 
rienced now  in  going  to  Grassy  Spring,  was  derived  from 
the  fact  that  she  thus  saw  more  of  Nina  than  she  would 
otherwise  have  done.  It  was  a  rare  and  beautiful  sight, 
the  perfect  love  existing  between  these  two  young  girls, 
Edith  seeming  the  elder,  inasmuch  as  she  was  the  taller 
and  more  self-reliant  of  the  two.  As  a  mother  watchei 
over  and  loves  her  maimed  infant,  so  did  Edith  guard  and 
cherish  Nina,  possessing  over  her  so  much  power  that  a 
single  look  from  her  black  eyes  was  sufficient  to  quiet  at 
once  the  little  lady,  who,  under  the  daily  influence  of  he/ 
society  visibly  improved  both  in  health  and  spirits. 


DB.    GEISWOLD.  161 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

DB.  GBISWOLD. 

Still  Nina's  mind  was  enshrouded  in  as  deep  a  gloom 
as  ever,  and  Dr.  Griswold,  who,  toward  the  latter  part  of 
June,  came  to  see  her,  said  it  would  be  so  always.  There 
was  no  hope  of  her  recovery,  and  with  his  olden  tender- 
ness of  manner  he  caressed  his  former  patient;  sighing  as 
he  thought  of  the  weary  life  before  her.  For  two  days 
Dr.  Griswold  remained  at  Grassy  Spring,  learning  in  that 
time  much  how  matters  stood.  He  saw  Edith  Hastings,  — 
scanned  with  his  clear,  far-reaching  eye  every  action  of 
Arthur  St.  Claire,  and  when  at  last  his  visit  was  ended,  and 
Arthur  was  walking  with  him  to  the  depot,  he  said  ab- 
ruptly, "  I  am  sorry  for  you,  St.  Claire ;  more  sorry  than  I 
ever  was  before,  but  you  know  the  path  of  duty  and  you 
must  walk  in  it,  letting  your  eyes  stray  to  neither  side, 
lest  they  fall  upon  forbidden  fruit." 

Arthur  made  no  reply  save  to  kick  the  gnarled  roots 
of  the  tree  under  which  they  had  stopped  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

"  Edith  Hastings  is  very  beautiful ! "  Dr.  Griswold  re- 
marked suddenly,  and  as  if  she  had  just  entered  his  mind. 
"  Does  she  come  often  to  Grassy  Spring  ?  " 

"  Every  day,"  and  Arthur  tried  to  look  his  friend  fully 
in  the  face,  but  could  not,  and  his  brown  eyes  fell  as  he 
added  hastily,  "  she  comes  to  see  Nina ;  they  are  greatly 
attached." 

M  She  has  a  wonderful  power  over  her,  I  think,"  returned 
Dr.  Griswold  ;  "  and  I  am  not  surprised  that  you  esteem 
her  highly  on  that  account,  but  how  will  it  be  hereafter 
when  other  duties,  other  relations  claim  her  attention. 
Will  she  not  cease  to  visit  you  and  so  Nina  made  worse?* 


162  1>ARKHESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"What  new  duties?  What  relations  do  you  mean,*1 
Arthur  asked  quickly,  trembling  in  every  joint  as  he  an- 
ticipated the  answer. 

"  I  have  a  fancy  that  Miss  Hastings  will  reward  that 
blind  man  for  all  his  kindness  with  her  heart  and  hand" 

fe Her  hand  it  may  be,  but  her  heart,  never"  interrupted 
Arthur,  betraying  by  his  agitation  what  Dr.  Griswold  had 
already  guessed. 

"  Poor  Arthur,"  he  said,  "  I  know  what  is  in  your  mind 
and  pity  you  so  much,  but  you  can  resist  temptation  and 
you  must.  There's  no  alternative.  You  chose  your  des- 
tiny years  ago  —  abide  by  it,  then.  Hope  and  pray,  as  I 
do,  that  Edith  Hastings  will  be  the  blind  man's  bride." 

"  Oh,  Griswold,"  and  Arthur  groaned  aloud,  "  you  can- 
not wish  to  sacrifice  her  thus  ! " 

"  I  can  —  I  do  —  it  will  save  you  both  from  ruin." 

"  Then  you  think  —  you  do  think  she  loves  me,"  and 
Arthur  looked  eagerly  at  his  friend,  who  answered,  "1 
think  nothing,  save  that  she  will  marry  Mr.  Harrington. 
Your  cousin  told  me  there  was  a  rumor  to  that  effect. 
She  is  often  at  Collingwood,  and  ought  to  be  posted." 

"  Griswold,  I  wish  I  were  dead,"  exclaimed  Arthur. 
"  Yes,  I  wish  I  were  dead,  and  were  it  not  that  I  dread 
the  hereafter,  I  would  end  my  existence  at  once  in  yon- 
der river,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  Chicopee,  winding  its 
glow  way  to  the  westward. 

Dr.  Griswold  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  replied  somewhat  sternly,  "  Rather  be  a  man  and 
wait  patiently  for  the  future." 

M  I  would,  but  for  the  fear  that  Edith  will  be  lost  to  rue 
forever,"  Arthur  answered  faintly,  and  Dr.  Griswold  re- 
plied, *  Better  so  than  lost  herself.  Why  not  be  candid 
with  her;  tell  her  everything;  go  over  the  entire,  past, 
and  if  she  truly  loves  you,  she  will  wait,  years  and  years 
if  need  be.  She's  young  yet,  too  young  to  be  a  wilu 
Will  you  tell  her?" 


DR.    GKISWOLD.  168 

"  I  can't,  I  can't,"  and  Arthur  shook  his  hea~.  despairing 
ly.  "  I  have  hidden  the  secret  too  long  to  tell  it  now.  It 
might  have  been  easy  at  first,  but  now  —  it's  too  late.  Oh, 
Griswold,  you  do  not  understand  what  I  suffer,  for  you 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  love  as  I  love  Edith  Hastings," 
For  a  moment  Dr.  Griswold  looked  at  him  in  sileuco 
He  knew  how  fierce  a  storm  had  gathered  round  him,  and 
how  bravely  he  had  met  it.  He  knew,  too,  how  impet- 
uous and  ardent  was  his  disposition,  how  much  one  of  his 
temperament  must  love  Edith  Hastings,  and  he  longed  to 
Bpeak  to  him  a  word  of  comfort.  Smoothing  the  brown 
hair  of  the  bowed  head,  and  sighing  to  see  how  many 
threads  of  silver  were  woven  in  it,  he  said, 

"  I  pity  you  so  much,  and  can  feel  for  you  more  than 
you  susj/^ct.  You  say  I  know  not  what  it  is  to  love. 
Oli,  Arthur,  Arthur.  You  little  guessed  what  it  cost  me, 
years  ago,  to  give  up  Nina  Bernard.  It  almost  broke  my 
heart,  and  the  wound  is  bleeding  yet !  Could  the  past  be 
undone  ;  could  we  stand  where  we  did  that  night  which 
both  remember  so  well,  I  would  hold  you  back ;  and 
Nina,  crazy  as  she  is,  should  this  moment  be  mine  —  mine 
to  love,  to  cherish,  to  care  for  and  weep  over  when  she 
is  dead.  Poor  little  unfortunate  Nina  —  rny  darling  — 
my  idol  —  my  clipped-wing  bird ! " 

It  was  Dr.  Griswold's  voice  which  trembled  now,  and 
Arthur's  which  essayed  to  comfort  him. 

"  I  never  dreamed  of  this,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  you,  with 
others,  had  a  liking  lor  her,  but  you  relinquished  her  so 
willingly,  I  could  not  guess  you  loved  her  so  well,"  and 
in  his  efforts  to  soothe  his  friend,  Arthur  forgot  his  own 
sorrow  in  part.  m 

It  was  time  now  for  the  Dr.  to  go,  as  the  smoke  of  the 
coming  train  was  visible  over  the  hills.  "  You  need  not 
accompany  me  further,"  he  said,  offering  his  hand  to  Ar- 
thur, who  pressed  it  in  silence,  and  then  walked  slowly 
back  to  Grassy  Spring. 


164  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Those  were  terrible  days  which  followed  the  visit  of 
Dr.  Griswold,  for  to  see  Edith  Hastings  often  was  a  dan« 
ger  he  dared  not  incur,  while  to  avoid  her  altogether  was 
utterly  impossible,  and  at  last  resolving  upon  a  change  of 
scene  as  his  only  hope,  he  one  morning  astonished  Grace 
with  the  announcement  that  he  was  going  South,  and  it 
might  be  many  weeks  ere  he  returned. 

Since  comi'.ig  to  that  neighborhood,  Arthui  hj.d  been  a 
puz*.-,  to  Grace,  and  she  watched  him  now  in  amazement, 
as  he  paced  the  floor,  giving  her  sundry  directions  with 
regard  to  Nina,  and  telling  her  where  a  letter  would  find 
him  in  case  she  should  be  sick,  and  require  his  personal 
attention.  It  was  in  vain  that  Grace  expostulated  with 
him  upon  what  seemed  to  her  a  foolish  and  uncalled-for 
journey.  He  was  resolved,  and  saying  he  should  not 
probably  see  Edith  ere  his  departure,  he  left  his  farewell 
with  her. 

Once  he  thought  of  bidding  her  encourage  Edith  to 
marry  the  blind  man,  but  he  could  not  quite  bring  himself 
to  this.  Edith  was  dearer  to  him  now  than  when  she 
promised  him  that  if  Richard  sought  her  hand  she  would 
not  tell  him  no,  and  he  felt  that  he  would  rather  she  should 
die  than  be  thus  sacrificed.  Anxiously  Grace  looked  after 
him  as  he  walked  rapidly  away,  thinking  within  herself 
that  long  association'  with  Nina  had  impaired  his  reason. 
And  Arthur  was  more  than  half  insane.  Not  until  now 
had  he  been  wholly  roused  to  the  reality  of  his  position. 
Dr.  Griswold  had  rent  asunder  the  flimsy  veil,  showing 
him  how  hopeless  was  his  love  for  Edith,  and  so,  because 
he  could  not  have  her,  he  must  go  away.  It  was  a  wise 
decision,  and  he  was  strengthened  to  keep  it  in  spite  of 
Nina's  tears  that  he  should  stay. 

u  Nina'll  die,  or  somebody'll  die,  I  know,"  and  the  little 
girl  clung  sobbing  to  his  neck,  when  the  hour  of  parting 
came. 

Very  gently  he  unclasped  her  clinging  arms ;  very  ten* 
derly  he  kissed  her  lips,  bidding  her  give  one  to  Miggie, 


DB.   GKISWOLD.  165 

and  then  he  left  her,  turning  back  ere  *.e  reached  the  gate, 
as  a  new  idea  struck  him.  Would  Nina  go  with  him ;  go 
to  her  Florida  home,  if  so  he  would  defer  his  journey  a 
day  or  so.  He  wondered  he  had  not  thought  of  this  be- 
fore. It  would  save  him  effectually,  and  he  anxiously 
Waited  her  answer. 

a  If  Higgle  goes  I  will,  but  not  without." 

This  was  Nina's  reply,  and  Arthur  turne'd  a  second 
time  away. 

In  much  surprise,  Edith,  who  came  that  afternoon,  heard 
of  Arthur's  departure. 

"  Why  did  he  go  without  bidding  me  good  bye  ?  "  she 
asked. 

M I  don't  know,  but  he  left  a  kiss  for  you  right  on  my 
lips,"  said  Nina,  putting  up  her  rosebud  mouth  for  Edith 
to  take  what  was  unquestionably  her  own. 

While  they  were  thus  talking  together,  the  door  bell 
rang,  and  Soph,  who  answered  the  ring,  admitted  Dr. 
Griswold. 

"  Dr.  Griswold  here  again  so  soon ! "  exclaimed  Edith, 
a  suspicion  crossing  her  mind  that  Arthur  had  arranged 
for  him  to  take  charge  of  Nina  during  his  absence.  "  But 
it  shall  not  be,"  she  thought,  "  I  can  prevent  her  return- 
ing to  the  Asylum,  and  I  will." 

She  might  have  spared  herself  all  uneasiness,  for  Dr. 
Griswold  knew  nothing  of  Arthur's  absence,  and  seemed 
more  surprised  than  she  had  been. 

"I  am  so  glad,  so  glad,"  he  said;  and  when  Edith 
looked  inquiringly  at  him,  he  answered,  "  I  am  glad  be- 
cause it  is  right  that  he  should  go." 

Edith  did  not  in  the  least  comprehend  his  meaning,  and 
as  he  manifested  no  intention  to  explain,  the  conversation 
soon  turned  upon  other  topics  than  Arthur  and  his  sudden 
journey.  Since  Arthur's  visit  to  Worcester,  Dr.  Gris- 
wold had  heard  nothing  from  him,  and  impelled  by  one 
of  those  strange  influences  which  will  sometimes  lead  a 


186  DARKNESS   ASTD   DAYLIGHT. 

pewon  on  to  his  fate,  he  had  come  up  to  Shannon  Jala 
partly  to  see  how  matters  stood  and  partly  to  whisper  a 
word  of  encouragement  to  one  who  needed  it  so  much. 
He  had  never  been  very  robust  or  strong; the  secret  which 
none  save  Arthur  knew  had  gradually  undermined  his 
health,  and  he  was  subject  to  frequent  attacks  of  what  he 
called  his  nervous  headaches.  The  slightest  cause  would 
sometimes  induce  one  of  these,  and  when  on  the  morning 
after  his  arrival  at  Grassy  Spring  he  awoke  from  a  troub- 
led sleep  he  knew  by  certain  unmistakable  signs  that  a 
day  of  suffering  was  in  store  for  him.  This  on  his  own 
account  he  would  not  have  minded  particularly,  for  he 
was  accustomed  to  it,  but  his  presence  was  needed  at 
home ;  and  the  knowledge  of  this  added  to  the  intensity 
of  his  pain,  which  became  so  great  that  to  rise  from  his 
pillow  was  impossible,  and  Soph,  when  sent  to  his  room 
to  announce  that  breakfast  was  waiting,  reported  him  to 
her  mother  as  "mighty  sick  with  blood  in  the  face." 

All  the  day  long  he  lay  in  the  darkened  room,  some- 
times dreaming,  sometimes  moaning,  and  watching  through 
his  closed  eyes  the  movements  of  Nina,  who  had  constituted 
herself  his  nurse,  treading  on  tiptoe  across  the  floor,  whis- 
pering to  herself,  and  apparently  carrying  on  an  animated 
conversation  with  some  imaginary  personage.  Softly,  she 
bathed  his  aching  head,  asking  every"  moment  if  he  were 
better,  and  going  once  behind  the  door  where  he  heard  hei 
praying  that  "  God  would  make  the  good  doctor  well." 

Blessed  Nina,  there  was  far  more  need  for  this  prayei 
than  she  supposed,  for  when  the  next  day  came,  the  pain 
and  heat  about  the  eyes  and  head  were  not  in  the  least 
abated,  and  a  physician  was  called,  who  pronounced  the 
symptoms  to  be  those  of  typhoid  fever.  With  a  stifled 
moan,  Dr.  Griswold  turned  upon  his  pillow,  while  his 
great,  unselfish  heart  Avent  out  after  his  poor  patients  in 
the  Asylum,  who  would  miss  him  so  imtch.  Three  days 
passed  away,  and  it  was  generally  known  in  the  village 


DR.   GRISWOLD.  187 

Ik 

that  a  stranger  lay  sick  of  typhus  fever  at  Grassy  Spring, 
which  with  common  consent  was  shunned  as  if  the  dead- 
ly plague  had  been  rioting  there.  Years  before  the  dis- 
ease had  raged  with  fearful  violence  in  the  town,  and 
many  a  fresh  mound  was  reared  in  the  graveyard,  and 
n:any  a  hearth-stone  desolated.  This  it  was  which  struck 
a  p:mic  to  the  hearts  of  the  inhabitants  when  they  knew 
;Iif  scourge  was  again  in  their  midst,  and  save  the  inmates 
of  the  house,  and  Edith  Hastings,  none  came  to  Dr.  Gris- 
wold's  aid.  At  first  Richard  refused  to  let  the  latter  put 
herself  in  the  way  of  danger,  but  for  once  Edith  asserted 
her  right  to  do  as  she  pleased,  and  declared  that  she  would 
share  Nina's  labors.  So  for  many  weary  days  and  nights 
those  two  young  girls  hovered  like  angels  of  mercy  around 
the  bed  where  the  sick  man  tossed  from  side  to  side,  while 
the  fever  burned  more  and  more  fiercely  in  his  veins  until 
his  reason  was  dethroned,  and  a  secret  told  which  other- 
wise would  have  died  with  him.  Gradually  the  long  hid- 
den love  for  Nina  showed  itself,  and  Edith,  who  alone 
could  comprehend  the  meaning  of  what  he  said  and  did, 
saw  how  a  strong,  determined  man  can  love,  even  when 
there  is  no  hope. 

"Little  wounded  dove,"  he  called  the  golden-haired 
maiden,  who  bent  so  constantly  over  him,  caressing  his 
burning  face  with  her  cool,  soft  hands,  passing  her  snowy 
fingers  through  his  disordered  hair,  and  suffering  him  to 
kiss  her  as  he  often  did,  but  insisting  always  that  Miggie 
should  be  kissed  also,  and  Edith,  knowing  that  what  was 
like  healing  to  the  sick  man  would  be  withheld  unless  she, 
too,  submitted,  would  sometimes  bow  her  graceful  head 
and  receive  upon  her  brow  the  token  of  affection. 

0  5Tou  must  hug  Miggie,  too,"  Nina  said  to  him  one  day, 
w  hen  he  had  held  her  slight  form  for  a  moment  to  his  bo- 
Bom.  "  She's  just  as  good  to  you  as  I  am." 

"Nina,"  said  Edith,  "Dr.  Griswold  does  not  love  me 
as  he  does  you,  and  you  must  not  worry  him  so.  Don't 


168  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

>  t 

you  see  it  makes  him  worse  ?  "  and  lifting  the  hair  sh« 
pointed  to  the  drops  of  perspiration  standing  upon  his 
forehead. 

This  seemed  to  satisfy  Nina,  while  at  the  same  time  her 
darkened  mind  must  have  caught  a  glimmer  of  the  truth, 
for  her  manner  changed  perceptibly,  and  for  a  day  or  so 
«b«  was  rather  shy  of  Dr.  Griswold.  Then  the  mood 
changed  again,  and  to  the  poor  dying  man  was  vouch- 
safed a  gliinspe  of  what  it  might  have  been  to  be  loved 
by  Nina  Bernard. 

"Little  sunbeam — little  clipped- winged  bird — little 
pearl,"  were  the  terms  of  endearment  he  lavished  upon, 
her,  as,  with  his  feeble  arm  about  her,  he  told  her  one 
night  how  he  loved  her.  "  Don't  go  Edith,"  he  said,  as 
he  saw  her  stealing  from  the  room;  "sit  down  here  be- 
side me  and  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

Edith  obeyed,  and  taking  her  hand  and  Nina's  in  his, 
as  if  the  touch  of  them  both  would  make  him  strong  to 
unburden  his  mind,  he  began : 

"  Let  me  call  you  Edith,  while  I'm  talking,  for  the  sake 
of  one  who  loves  you  even  as  I  love  Nina." 

Edith  started,  and  very  foolishly  replied, 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Harrington  ?  " 

She  knew  he  didn't,  but  her  heart  was  so  sore  on  the 
subject  of  Arthur's  absence  that  she  longed  to  be  re- 
assured in  some  way,  and  so  said  what  she  did. 

"No,  Edith,  it  is  not  Mr.  Harrington,  I  mean,"  and 
Dr.  Griswold's  bright  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  the 
trembling  girl  as  if  to  read  her  inmost  soul,  and  see  how 
.(hr  her  feelings  were  enlisted. 

"It's  Arthur,"  said  Nina,  nodding  knowingly  at  both. 

"Arthur,"  Edith  repeated  bitterly.  "Fine  proof  he 
gives  of  his  love.  Going  from  home  for  an  indefinite 
length  of  time  without  one  word  for  me.  He  hates  me, 
I  know,"  and  bursting  into  tears  she  buried  her  face  in 
the  lap  of  Nina,  who  sat  upon  the  bed. 


T>R.   GUISWOLD.  16& 

a  Poor  Edit!) ! "  and  another  hand  than  Nina's  smoothed 
her  bands  of  shining  hair.  "By  this  one  act  you  have 
confessed  that  Arthur's  love  is  not  unrequited.  I  hoped 
it  might  be  otherwise.  God  help  you,  Edith.  God  help 
you." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  and  a  thrill  of  fear  ran  through 
E  lith  s  veins.  Lifting  up  her  head,  she  said, 

"You  talk  as  if  it  were  a  certainty  that  Arthur 
St.  Claire  loves  me.  He  has  never  told  me  so  —  never.'1 

She  could  not  add  that  he  had  never  given  her  reason 
to  think  so,  for  he  had,  and  her  whole  frame  quivered 
with  joy  as  she  heard  her  suspicions  confirmed  by 
Dr.  Griswold. 

"  He  does  love  you,  Edith  Hastings.  He  has  confessed 
as  much  to  me,  and  this  is  why  he  has  gon.e  from  home. 
He  would  forget  you,  and  it  is  right.  He  must  forget 
you ;  he  must  net  love.  It  would  be  a  wiclced,  wicked 
thing ;  and  Edith  —  ire  you  listening  —  do  you  hear  all 
I  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  came  faintly  from  Nina's  lap,  where  Edith  had 
laid  her  face  again. 

"Then  promise  not  to  marry  him,  so  long  —  so  long — • 
Oh,  Nina,  how  can  I  say  it  ?  Edith,  swear  you'll  nevei 
marry  Arthur.  Swear,  Edith,  swear." 

His  voice  was  raised  to  a  shriek,  and  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  lamp,  which  fell  upon  his  pallid  feature's,  both 
Edith  and  Nina  saw  the  wild  delirium  flashing  from  his 
eye.  Nina  was  the  first  to  detect  it,  and  wringing  Edith's 
hand  she  whispered,  imploringly, 

"Swear,  Miggie,  once.  Say  thunder,  or  something  like 
that  as  softly  as  you  can.  It  won't  be  so  very  bad,  and  he 
wanlfl  you  to  so  much." 

Fiightened  as  Edith  was  at  Dr.  Griswold's  manner  she 
could  not  repress  a  smile  at  Nina's  mistaken  idea.     Still 
she  did  not  swear,  and  all  that  night  he  continued  talking 
incoherently  of  Arthur,  of  Edith,  of  Nina,  Geneva,  Rich- 
8 


170  DARKNESS    AKD   DAYLIGHT. 

ard  Harrington,  and  a  thousand  other  matters,  mingling 
them  together  in  such  a  manner  that  nothing  clear  or  con- 
nected could  be  made  of  what  he  said.  In  the  morning 
he  was  more  quiet,  but  there  was  little  hope  of  his  life, 
the  physician  said.  From  the  first  he  had  greatly  desired 
to  see  Arthur  once  more,  and  when  his  danger  became 
apparent  a  telegram  had  been  forwarded  to  the  wanderer, 
but  brought  back  no  response.  Another  was  sent,  and 
another,  the  third  one,  in  the  form  of  a  letter,  finding  him 
far  up  the  Red  river,  where  in  that  sultry  season  the  ait 
was  rife  with  pestilence,  which  held  with  death  many  a 
wanton  revel,  and  would  surely  have  claimed  him  for  its 
victim,  but  for  the  timely  note  which  called  him  away. 

Night  and  day,  day  and  night,  as  fast  as  the  steam-god 
could  take  him,  he  traveled,  his  heart  swelling  with  al- 
ternate hope  and  fear  as  he  neared  the  north-land,  seeing 
from  afar  the  tall  heads  of  the  New  England  mountains, 
and  knowing  by  that  token  that  he  was  almost  home. 
***** 

It  was  night,  dark  night  at  Grassy  Spring,  and  the  sum- 
mer rain,  which  all  the  day  had  fallen  in  heavy  showers, 
beat  drearily  against  the  windows  of  the  room  where  a 
fair  young  girl  was  keeping  watch  over  the  white-faced 
man  whose  life  was  fast  ebbing  away.  They  were  alone, 
—  Dr.  Griswold  and  Nina  —  for  both  would  have  it  so, 
He,  because  he  felt  how  infinitely  precious  to  him  would 
be  his  last  few  hours  with  her,  when  there  was  no  curious 
ear  to  listen ;  and  she,  because  she  would  have  Miggie 
sleep.  Nina  knew  no  languor  from  wakefulness.  She 
was  accustomed  to  it,  and  as  if  imbued  with  snpernativ 
ral  strength,  she  had  sat  night  after  night  in  that  close 
room,  ministering  to  the  sick  man  as  no  one  else  could 
have  done,  and  by  her  faithfulness  and  tender  care  re 
paying  him  in  part  for  the  love  which  for  long,  weary 
years  had  known  no  change,  and  which,  as  life  drew  neai 
its  close  manifested  itself  in  a  desire  to  have  her  con« 


DR.   GKTSWOLD.  171 

atantly  at  his  side,  where  he  could  look  into  her  eyes,  and 
hear  the  murmurings  of  her  bird-like  voice. 

Thus  far  Edith  and  the  servants  had  shared  her  vigils, 
but  this  night  she  preferred  to  be  alone,  insisting  that 
Edith,  who  began  to  show  signs  of  weariness,  should  oc- 
cupy the  little  room  adjoining,  where  she  could  be  called, 
if  necessary.  Not  apprehending  death  so  soon  the  phy- 
sician acquiesced  in  this  arrangement,  stipulating,  how- 
ever, that  Phillis  should  sleep  upon  the  lounge  in  Dr. 
Griswold's  chamber,  but  the  care,  the  responsibility,  should 
all  be  Nina's,  he  said,  and  with  childish  alacrity  she  has- 
tened to  her  post.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  kept  the 
watch  alone,  but  from  past  experience  the  physician  be- 
lieved she  could  be  trusted,  and  he  left  her  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation. 

Slowly  the  hours  went  by,  and  Nina  heard  no  sound 
save  the  low  breathing  of  the  sleepers  near,  the  dropping 
of  the  rain,  and  the  mournful  sighing  of  the  wind  through 
the  maple  trees.  Midnight  came,  and  then  the  eyes  of 
the  sick  man  opened  wide  and  wandered  about  the  room 
as  if  in  quest  of  some  one. 

"Nina,"  he  said,  faintly,  "Are  you  here?  Why  has 
the  lamp  gone  out  ?  It's  so  dark  that  I  can't  see  your 
face." 

Bending  over  him,  Nina  replied, 

"  I'm  here,  doctor.  Nina's  here.  Shall  I  get  more  light 
so  you  can  see  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling,  more  light  —  more  light ; "  and  swift  as 
a  fawn  Nina  ran  noiselessly  from  room  to  room,  gathering 
Uf  lamp  after  lamp,  and  candle  after  candle,  and  bringing 
tiism  to  the  sick  chamber,  which  blazed  as  if  on  fire, 
while  the  musical  laugh  of  the  lunatic  echoed  through 
the  room  as  she  -whispered  to  herself,  "Twenty  sperm 
candles  and  fifteen  lamps !  'Tis  a  glorious  watch  I  keep 
to-night." 

Once  she  thought  of  wakening  Edith  to  share  in  her 


172  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

transports,  but  was  withheld  from  doing  so  by  a  feeling 
that  "Miggie"  would  not  approve  her  work. 

"  It's  light  as  noonday,"  she  said,  seating  herself  upon 
the  bedside.  "  Can't  you  see  me  now  ?  " 

"  No,  Nina,  I  shall  never  look  on  your"  dear  face  again 
ui  til  we  meet  in  Heaven.  There  you  will  be  my  own. 
Ho  one  can  come  between  us,"  and  the  feeble  arms  wound 
themseives  lovingly  around  the  maiden,  who  laid  her 
cheek  against  his  feverish  one,  while  her  little  fingers 
strayed  once  more  amid  the  mass  of  disordered  hair, 
pushing  it  back  from  the  damp  forehead,  which  she  touch 
ed  with  her  sweet  lips. 

"  Nina,"  and  the  voice  was  so  low  that  Nina  bent  her 
down  to  catch  the  sound,  "  I  am  dying,  darling.  You 
are  not  afraid  to  stay  with  me  till  the  last  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  not  afraid,  but  I  do  so  wish  you 
could  see  the  splendid  illumination.  Twenty  candles  and 
fifteen  lamps  —  the  wicks  of  them  all  an  inch  in  height. 
Oh,  it's  grand ! "  and  again  Nina  chuckled  as  she  saw  how 
the  lurid  blaze  lit  up  the  window  panes  with  a  sheet  of 
flame  which,  flashing  backward,  danced  upon  the  wall  in 
many  a  grotesque  form,  and  cast  a  reddish  glow  even  upon 
the  white  face  of  the  dying. 

He  was  growing  very  restless  now,  for  t^~  Tzist  great 
struggle  had  commenced ;  the  soul  was  waging  a  mighty 
battle  with  the  body,  and  the  conflict  was  a  terrible  one, 
wringing  groans  of  agony  from  him  and  great  tears  from 
Nina,  who  forgot  her  bonfire  in  her  grief.  Once  when 
the  fever  had  scorched  her  veins  and  she  had  raved  in 
niad  delirium,  Dr.  Griswold  had  rocked  her  in  his  arms  as 
he  would  have  rocked  a  little  child,  and  remembering 
tins  the  insane  desire  seized  on  Nina  to  rock  him,  too,  to 
sleep.  But  she  could  not  lift  him  up,  though  she  bent 
every  energy  to  the  task,  and  at  last,  passing  one  arm  be- 
neath his  neck  she  managed  to  sit  behind  him,  holding 
him  in  such  a  position  that  he  rested  easier,  and  his  con. 


DE.   GRISWOLD.  173 

vulsive  movements  ceased  entirely.  With  his  head  upon 
her  bosom  she  rocked  to  and  fro,  uttering  a  low,  cooing 
Bonn;],  as  if  soothing  him  to  sleep. 

"Sing,  Nina,  sing,"  he  whispered,  and  on  the  night  ail 
a  mournful  cadence  rose,  swelling  sometimes  so  high  that 
Edith  moved  uneasily  upon  her  pillow,  while  even  Phillia 
stretched  out  a  hand  as  if  about  to  awaken. 

Then  the  music  changed  to  a  plaintive  German  song, 
and  Edith  dreamed  of  Bingen  on  the  Rhine,  while 
Dr.  Griswold  listened  eagerly,  whispering  at  intervals, 

"  Precious  Nina,  blessed  dove,  sing  on  —  sing  till  I  am 
at  rest." 

This  was  sufficient  for  Nina,  arid  one  after  another  she 
warbled  the  wild  songs  she  knew  he  loved  the  best,  while 
the  lamps  upon  the  table  and  the  candles  upon  the  floor 
flickered  and  flamed  and  cast  their  light  far  out  into  the 
ynrd,  where  the  August  rain  was  falling,  and  where  more 
than  one  bird,  startled  from  its  slumbers,  looked  up  to  see 
whence  came  the  fitful  glare,  wondering,  it  may  be,  at  tho 
solemn  dirge,  floating  out  into  the  darkness  far  beyond 
the  light. 

The  grey  dawn  broke  at  last,  and  up  the  graveled  walk 
rapid  footsteps  came  —  Arthur  St.  Claire  hastening  home. 
From  a  distant  hill  he  had  caught  the  blaze  of  Nina's 
bonfire,  and  trembling  with  fear  and  dread,  he  hurried  on 
to  learn  what  it  could  mean.  There  was  no  stir  about 
the  house  —  no  sign  of  life,  only  the  crimson  blaze  shin- 
ing across  the  fields,  and  the  sound  of  a  voice,  feeble  now, 
and  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper,  for  Nina's  strength  was 
giving  way.  For  hours  she  had  sung,  while  the  bead 
upon  her  bosom  pressed  more  and  more  heavLy  —  the 
hand  which  clasped  her's  unloosed  its  hold  —  the  eyef 
which  had  fastened  themselves  upon  her  with  a  lor  k  of 
unutterable  love,  closed  wearily  —  the  lip*,  which,  so  long 
as  there  was  life  in  them,  ceased  not  to  bless  her,  were 
Btill,  and  poor  tired,  crazy  Nina,  fancying  that  he  slept  at 


174  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

last,  still  swayed  back  and  forth,  singing  to  the  cold  sense- 
less clay,  an  infant  lullaby. 

"  Hushaby,  my  baby  —  go  to  sleep,  my  child." 
He  had  sung  it  once  to  her.  She  sang  it  now  to  him, 
and  the  strange  words  fell  on  Arthur's  ear,  even  before  ho 
stepped  across  the  threshold,  where  he  stood  appalled  at 
the  unwonted  spectacle  which  met  his  view.  Nina  mani- 
fested no  surprise  whatever,  but  holding  up  her  finger, 
motioned  him  to  tread  cautiously,  if  he  would  come  near 
where  she  was. 

"  He  couldn't  see,"  she  whispered,  "  and  I  made  him  a 
famous  light.  Isn't  it  glorious  here,  smoke,  and  fire  and 
all?  He  is  sleeping  quietly  now,  only  his  head  is  very 
heavy.  It  makes  my  arm  ache  so  hard,  and  his  hands  are 
growing  cold,  I  cannot  kiss  them  warm,"  and  she  held  the 
stiffening  fingers  against  her  burning  cheek,  shuddering  at 
the  chill  they  gave  her,  just  as  Arthur  shuddered  at  the 
sight,  for  it  needed  nothing  more  to  tell  him  that 
Dr.  Griswold  was  dead ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

EX-OFFICIO. 

The  spacious  rooms  at  Grassy  Spring  had  been  filled  to 
their  utmost  capacity  by  those  of  the  villagers,  who,  having 
recovered  from  their  panic,  came  to  join  in  the  funeral  ob- 
sequies of  Dr.  Griswold.  In  the  yard  without  the  grass 
was  trampled  down  and  the  flowers  broken  from  their 
stalks  by  the  crowds,  who,  failing  to  gain  admittance  to 
*he  Jiiterior  of  the  house,  hovered  about  the  door,  strug- 
gling for  a  sight  of  the  young  girl,  whose  strange  death 
watch  and  stranger  bonfire  was  the  theme  of  every  tongue. 
Solemnly  the  voice  of  God's  ambassador  was  heard,  pro- 
claiming, "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the 
Lord;  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet 


EX-OFFICIO.  175 

shall  lie  live,"  and  then  a  song  was  sung,  the  voices  of 
the  singers  faltering,  all  but  one,  which,  rising  clear  and 
sweet  above  the  rest,  sang  of  the  better  world,  where  the 
bright  eternal  noonday  ever  reigns,  and  the  assembled 
throng  without  held  their  breath  to  listen,  whispering  to 
each  other,  "It  is  Nina,  the  crazy  girl.  She  was  the 
doctor's  betrothed." 

Down  the  gravelled  walk,  —  along  the  highway,  —  over 
the  river,  and  up  the  hill  to  the  village  churchyard  the 
long  procession  moved,  and  when  it  backward  turned, 
one  of  the  number  was  left  behind,  and  the  August  sun- 
set fell  softly  upon  his  early  grave.  Sadly  the  mourners, 
Arthur,  Edith  and  Nina,  went  to  their  respective  homes, 
Edith  seeking  the  rest  she  so  much  needed,  Nina  subdued 
and  awed  into  perfect  quiet,  sitting  with  folded  hands  in 
the  room  where  her  truest  friend  had  died,  while  Arthur, 
alone  in  his  chamber,  held  as  it  were  communion  with  the 
dead,  who  seemed  this  night  to  be  so  near  to  him. 

Swiftly,  silently,  one  by  one,  the  days  came  and  went 
until  it  was  weeks  since  Dr.  Griswold  died,  and  things  at 
Grassy  Spring  assumed  their  former  routine.  At  first 
Nina  was  inclined  to  be  melancholy,  talking  much  of  the  de- 
ceased, and  appearing  at  times  so  depressed  that  Arthur 
trembled,  lest  she  should  again  become  unmanageable, 
wondering  what  he  should  do  with  her  now  the  Dr.  was 
gone.  Gradually,  however,  she  recovered  her  usual1  health 
and  spirits,  appearing  outwardly  the  same;  but  not  so 
with  Arthur,  whose  thoughts  and  feelings  no  one  could 
fathom.  It  was  as  if  he  had  locked  himself  within  a  wall  of 
ice,  which  nothing  had  power  to  thaw.  He  saw  but  little  of 
Edith  now;  the  lesson's  had  been  tacitly  "given  up,  and, 
after  what  she  had  heard  from  Dr.  Griswold,  she  could  not 
come  to  Grassy  Spring  just  as  she  used  to  do,  so  she  re- 
mained at  home,  marvelling  at  the  change  in  Arthur,  and 
wondering  if  he  really  loved  her,  why  he  did  not  tell  her 
BO.  Much  of  what  Dr.  Griswold  had  said  she  imputed  to 


176  DAEKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

delirium,  and  with  the  certainty  that  she  was  beloved,  she 
would  not  dwell  upon  anything  which  made  her  unhappy, 
and  she  waited  for  the  end,  now  hastening  on  with  rapid 
strides. 

Behind  the  icy  wall  which  Arthur  had  built  around 
himself,  a  fierce  storm  was  blowing,  and  notwithstanding 
the  many  midnight  watches  kept  over  Dr.  Griswold'a 
grave,  the  tempest  still  raged  fearfully,  threatening  to 
burst  its  barriers  and  carry  all  before  it.  But  it  reached 
its  height  at  last,  and  wishing  to  test  his  strength,  Arthur 
asked  Nina  one  pleasant  night  to  go  with  him  to  Colling- 
wood.  She  consented  readily,  and  in  a  few  moments  they 
were  on  their  way.  They  found  the  family  assembled 
upon  the  broad  piazza,  where  the  full  moon  shone  upon 
them  through  the  broad  leaves  of  woodbine  twining 
about  the  massive  pillars.  Edith  sat  as  usual  upon  a  stool 
at  Richard's  feet,  and  her  face  wore  a  look  of  disappoint- 
ment. Thoughts  of  Eloise  Temple  had  been  in  her  mind 
the  entire  day,  and  sitting  there  with  Richard,  she  had 
ventured  to  ask  him  again  of  the  young  girl  in  whom  she 
was  so  much  interested.  But  Richard  shook  his  head. 
He  was  reserving  Eloise  Temple  for  a  future  day,  and  ha 
said  to  Edith, 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  of  her  yet,  or  where  she  is." 

"When  will  you  then?"  and  Edith  spoke  pettishly. 
w  You  always  put  me  off,  and  I  don't  see  either  why  you 
need  to  be  so  much  afraid  of  telling  me  about  her,  unless 
her  mother  was  bad,  or  something." 

"  Edith,"  Richard  replied,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  explain 
t\  you  now.  By  and  by  I'll  tell  you,  it  may  be,  though 
even  that  will  depend  on  circumstances ; "  and  he  sighed 
as  he  thought  what  the  circumstances  must  be  which 
would  keep  from  Edith  any  further  knowledge  of  Eloise 
than  she  already  possessed. 

Edith  did  not  hear  the  sigh.  She  only  knew  that  H 
was  useless  to  question  him,  and  beating  her  little  foot 


EX-OFFICIO.  177 

impatiently,  she  muttered^  "More  mystery.  If  there's 
any  thing  I  hate  it's  mystery. — " 

She  did  not  finish  what  she  meant  to  say,  for  at  that 
moment  she  spied  Arthur  and  Nina  coming  through  the 
garden  gate  as  the  nearest  route. 

Edith  was  not  in  the  best  of  humors.  She  was  vexed 
at  Richard,  because  he  wouldn't  tell  and  at  Arthur  for 
"acting  so,"  as  she  termed  it,  —  this  acting  so  implying 
the  studied  indifference  with  which  he  had  treated  her  of 
lat..i  But  she  was  not  vexed  with  Nina,  and  running  out 
to  meat  her,  she  laid  her  arm  across  her  neck,  and  led  her 
with  many  words  of  welcome  to  the  stool  she  had  just 
vacated,  saying  laughingly:  "I  know  Mr.  Harrington 
would  rather  you  should  sit  here  than  a  cross  patch  like 
me !  I'm  ill-natured  to-night,  Mr.  St.  Claire,"  and  she 
bit  her  words  off  with  playful  spitefulness. 

"  Your  face  cannot  be  an  index  to  your  feelings,  then,'' 
returned  Arthur,  retaining  her  offered  hand  a  moment, 
and  looking  into  her  eyes,  just  to  see  if  he  could  do  it 
without  flinching. 

It  was  a  dangerous  experiment,  for  Edith's  soul  looked 
through  her  eyes,  and  Arthur  read  therein  that  which 
sent  feverish  heats  and  icy  chills  alternately  through  his 
veins.  Releasing  her  hand  he  sat  down  upon  the  upper 
step  of  the  piazza,  and  leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars, 
began  to  pluck  the  leaves  within  his  reach,  and  mechani- 
cally tear  them  in  pieces. 

Meantime  Richard  had  signified  to  Edith  his  wish  tha4 
she  should  bring  another  stool,  and  sit  beside  him  just  aa 
Nina  was  doing. 

" I  can  then  rest  my  hands  upon  the  heads  of  you  both," 
Itc  said,  smoothing  the  while  Nina's  golden  curls. 

"Now  tell  us  a  story,  please,"  said  Nina;  and  when 
Richard  askeJ  what  it  should  be,  she  replied, 

"Oh,  till  is  about  the  years  ago  when  you  were  jver 
the  sea,  and  why  you  have  never  married.  Maybe  you 


178  DAKKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

have,  though.  You  are  old  enough,  I  reckon.  Did  you 
ever  marry  anybody  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did"  returned  Richard ;  "  a  little  girl  with 
hair  like  yours,  I  think,  though  my  eyesight  then  was 
almost  gone,  and  I  saw  nothing  distinctly." 

"  Wha-a-at ! "  exclaimed  Edith,  at  the  same  time  asking 
Arthur  if  he  was  hurt  as  h^  started  suddenly. 

"There  it  goes.  It  was  a  bee,  I  guess;"  and  Nina 
pointed  to  an  insect  flitting  by,  but  so  far  from  Arthur  as 
to  render  a  sting  from  the  diminutive  creature  impossible. 
Still  it  served  as  an  excuse,  and  blessing  Nina  in  his 
heart  for  the  suggestion,  Arthur  talked  rapidly  of  various 
matters,  hoping  in  this  way  to  change  the  conversation. 
But  Edith  was  not  to  be  put  off,  even  if  Nina  were.  She 
was  too  much  interested  to  know  what  Richard  meant, 
and  as  soon  as  politeness  would  permit,  she  said  to  him, 

"  Please  go  on,  and  tell  us  of  the  girl  you  married. 
Who  was  the  bridegroom,  and  where  did  it  occur  ?  " 

There  was  no  longer  a  shadow  of  hope  that  the  story 
would  not  be  told,  and  folding  his  arms  like  one  resigned 
to  his  fate,  Arthur  listened,  while  Richard  related  to  the 
two  girls  how,  soon  after  his  removal  to  Geneva,  he  had 
been  elected  Justice  of  the  Peace  in  place  of  one  resigned. 
"  I  did  not  wish  for  the  office,"  he  said,  "  although  I  was 
seldojn  called  upon  to  act,  and  after  my  sight  began  to  fail 
so  fast,  people  never  came  U»  me  except  on  trivial  matters. 
One  night,  however,  as  many  as  —  let  me  see  —  as  many 
as  ten  years  ago,  my  housekeeper  told  me  there  were  in 
the  parlor  four  young  people  desirous  $f  seeing  me,  ad- 
ding that  she  believed  a  wedding  was  in  contemplation." 

"  Splendid  ! "  cried  Edith ;  "  and  you  married  them, 
iidn't  you?  Tell  us  all  about  it;  how  the  bride  looked, 
and  every  thing." 

"I  cannot  gratify  you  in  that  respect,"  returned  Rich- 
ard. "  There  was  a  veil  of  darkness  between  us,  and  I 
could  aee  nothing  distinctly,  but  I  knew  she  was  very 


EX    OFFICIO.  179 

slight,  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  I  was  sorry  afterward  ;ha 
I  did  not  question  her  age." 

"  A  runaway  match  from  the  Seminary,  perhaps,"  sug 
gested  Arthur,  in  tones  so  steady  as  to  astonish  himself. 

"I  have  sometimes  thought  so  since,"  was  Richard's 
reply,  "but  as  nothing  of  the  kind  was  ever  known  to 
have  occurred,  I  may  have  been  mistaken." 

"But  the  names?"  cried  Edith,  eagerly,  "you  could 
surely  tell  by  that,  unless  they  were  feigned." 

"  Which  is  hardly  probable,"  Richard  rejoined,  "  though 
they  might  as  A\  ell  have  been  for  any  good  they  do  me 
now.  I  was  toe  unhappy  then,  too  much  wrapped  up  in 
my  own  misfortunes  to  care  for  what  was  passing  around 
me,  and  though  I  gave  them  a  certificate,  keeping  myself 
a  memorandum  of  the  same,  I  soon  forgot  their  names 
entirely." 

"But  the  copy,"  chimed  in  Edith,  "that  will  tell. 
Let's  hunt  it  up.  I'm  so  interested  in  these  people,  and 
it  seems  so  funny  that  you  should  have  married  them. 
I  wonder  where  they  are.  Have  you  never  heard  a  word 
from  them  ?  " 

" Never,  since  that  night,"  said  Richard;  "and  what  is 
more  unfortunate  still  for  an  inquisitive  mother  Eve,  like 
you,  the  copy  which  I  kept  was  burned  by  a  servant  who 
destroyed  it  with  sundry  other  business  papers,  on  one  of 
her  cleaning  house  days." 

"  Ah-h,"  and  Arthur  drew  a  long,  long  breath,  which 
prompted  Edith  to  ask  if  he  were  tired. 

"  You're  not  as  much  interested  as  I  am,"  she  said.  "  J 
do  wish  I  knew  who  the  young  bride  was  —  so  small  and 
BO  fair.  Was  she  as  tall  as  Nina  ? "  and  she  turned 
to  Richard,  who  replied, 

"  I  can  hardly  judge  the  height  of  either.  Stand  up, 
Snow  Drop,  and  let  me  feel  if  you  are  as  tall  as  the  biide 
of  ten  years  ago." 

"  Yes,  Nina  is  the  taller  of  the  two,"  said  Richard,  ai 


180  DARKNESS    AXD    DAYLIGHT. 

she  complied  with  his  request  and  stood  under  his  hand. 
"  I  have  often  thought  of  this  girl- wife  and  her  handsome 
boy-husband,  doubting  whether  I  did  right  to  marry  thenii 
but  the  young  man  who  accompanied  them  went  far 
toward  reassuring  me  that  all  was  right.  They  were  resi- 
dents of  the  village,  he  said,  and  having  seen  me  often  in 
town,  had  taken  a  fancy  to  have  me  perform  the  ceremo- 
ny, just  for  the  novelty  of  the  thing." 

*'  It's  queer  you  never  heard  of  them  afterward,"  said 
Edith ;  while  Nina,  looking  up  ic  the  blind  man's  face, 
rejoined, 

«  You  did  it  then?" 

"  Nina,"  said  Arthur  ere  Richard  could  reply,  "  it  is  time 
we  were  going  home ;  there  is  Sophy  with  the  shawl 
which  you  forgot."  And  he  pointed  toward  Soph  coming 
through  the  garden,  with  a  warm  shawl  tucked  under  her 
arm,  for  the  dew  was  heavy  that  night  and  she  feared  lest 
Nina  should  take  cold. 

"Nina  won't  go  yet ;  she  isn't  ready,"  persisted  the  ca- 
pricious maiden.  "Go  till  I  call  you,"  and  having  thus 
summarily  dismissed  Soph,  the  little  lady  resumed  the 
seat  from  which  she  had  arisen,  and  laying  her  head  on 
Richard's  knee,  whispered  to  him  softly,  "  CarSt  you 
scratch  it  out  ?  " 

"  Scratch  what  out  ?  "  he  asked ;  and  Nina  replied, 

"  Why,  it ;  what  you've  been  talking  about.  Nothing 
ever  came  of  it  but  despair  and  darkness." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  Richard  said,  and  as 
Arthur  did  not  volunteer  any  information,  but  sat  care- 
lessly scraping  his  thumb  nail  with  a  pen-knife,  Edith 
made  some  trivial  remark  which  turned  the  channel  of 
Nina's  thoughts,  and  she  forgot  to  urge  the  request  that 
uit  should  be  scratched  out." 

"Nina'll  go  now,"  she  said,  after  ten  minutes  bad 
elapsed,  and  calling  Soph,  Arthur  was  soon  on  his  way 


THE   DECISION.  181 

home,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  was  glad  or  sorry  that 
every  proof  of  his  early  error  was  forever  destroyed. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  DECISION. 

The  summer  was  over  and  gone ;  its  last  breath  had 
died  away  amid  the  New  England  hills,  and  the  mellow 
October  days  had  come,  when  in  the  words  of  America's 
sweetest  poetess, 

"  The  woods  stand  bare  and  brown, 
And  into  the  lap  of  the  South  land, 
The  flowers  are  blowing  down." 

Over  all  there  was  that  dreamy,  languid  haze,  so  com- 
mon to  the  Autumn  time,,  when  the  distant  hills  are 
bathed  in  a  smoky  light  and  all  things  give  token  of  de- 
cay. The  sun,  round  and  red,  as  the  October  sun  is  wont 
to  be,  shone  brightly  upon  Collingwood,  and  looked  cheer- 
ily into  the  room  where  Edith  Hastings  sat,  waiting  ap- 
parently for  some  one  whose  tardy  appearance  filled  her 
with  impatience.  In  her  hand  she  held  a  tiny  note  re- 
ceived the  previous  night,  and  as  .she  read  for  the  twenti- 
eth time  the  few  lines  contained  therein,  her  blushes  deep- 
ened on  her  cheek,  and  her  black  eyes  grew  softer  anct 
more  subdued  in  their  expression. 

"  Edith,"  the  note  began,  "  I  must  see  you  alone.  I 
Lsve  something  to  say  to  you  which  a  third  person  cannot 
hear.  May  I  come  to  Collingwood  to-morrow  at  three 
o'clock,  P.  M.  ?  In  haste,  Arthur  St.  Claire." 

The  words  were  very  cold,  but  to  Edith  they  contained 
a  World  of  meaning.  She  knew  she  was  beloved  by 
Arthur  St.  Claire.  Dr.  Griswold  had  told  her  so.  Grac« 


fc2  DAliKJSESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

had  told  her  so.  Nina  had  told  her  so,  while  more  than 
ail  his  manner  had  told  her  so  repeatedly,  and  now  h« 
would  tell  her  so  himself,  and  had  chosen  a  time  when 
Richard  and  Victor  were  both  in  Boston,  as  the  one  best 
adapted  to  the  interview.  Edith  was  like  all  other  maid- 
ens of  eighteen,  and  her  girlish  heart  fluttered  with  joy  aa 
she  thought  what  her  answer  would  be,  but  not  at  first,  — 
not  at  once,  lest  she  seem  too  anxious.  She'd  make  him 
wait  a  whole  week,  then  see  how  he  felt.  He  deserved  it 
all  for  his  weak  vacillation.  If  he  loved  her  why  hadn't 
he  told  her  before !  She  didn't  believe  there  was  such  a 
terrible  impediment  in  the  way.  Probably  he  had  sworn 
never  to  many  any  one  save  Nina,  but  her  insanity  was 
certainly  a  sufficient  reason  for  his  not  keeping  the  oath. 
Dr.  Griswold  was  peculiar, —  over-nice  in  some  points, 
and  Arthur  had  been  wholly  under  his  control,  becoming 
morbidly  sensitive  to  the  past,  and  magnifying  every 
trivial  circumstance  into  a  mountain  too  great  to  be  moved. 

This  was  Edith's  reasoning  as  she  sat  waiting  that  Octo- 
ber afternoon  for  Arthur,  who  came  ere  long,  looking 
happier,  more  like  himself  than  she  had  seen  him  since 
the  memorable  day  when  she  first  met  Nina.  Ar- 
thur had  determined  to  do  right,  to  tell  without  reserve 
the  whole  of  his  past  history  to  Edith  Hastings,  and  the 
moment  he  reached  this  decision  half  his  burden  was 
lifted  from  his  mind.  Jt  cost  him  a  bitter  struggle  thus 
to  decide,  and  lest  his  courage  should  give  way,  he  had 
asked  for  an  early  interview.  It  was  granted,  and  without 
giving  himself  time  to  repent  he  came  at  once  and  stood 
before  the  woman  who  was  dearer  to  him  than  his  life. 
Gladly  would  he  have  died  could  he  thus  have  blotted 
out  the  past  and  made  Edith  his  wife,  but  he  could  not, 
and  he  had  come  to  tell  her  so. 

Never  had  she  been  more  beautiful  than  she  was  that 
afternoon.  Her  dress  of  crimson  merino  contrasted  well 
with  her  clear  dark  complexion.  Her  magnificent  hair, 


THE   DECISION.  183 

arranged  with  far  more  care  than  usual,  was  wound  in 
many  a  heavy  braid  around  her  head,  while,  half-hidden 
amid  the  silken  bands,  and  drooping  gracefully  behind 
one  ear,  was  a  single  white  rose-bud,  mingled  with  scarlet 
blossoms  of  verbena ;  the  effect  adding  greatly  to  her 
beauty.  Excitement  lent  a  brighter  sparkle  to  her  bril- 
liant eyes,  and  a  richer  bloom  to  her  glowing  cheeks.,  and 
thus  she  sat  waiting  for  Arthur  St.  Claire,  who  felt  hia 
heart  grow  cold  and  faint  as  he  looked  upon  her,  and 
knew  her  charms  were  not  for  him.  She  detected  his 
agitation,  and  as  a  kitten  plays  with  a  captured  mouse, 
torturing  it  almost  to  madness,  so  she  played  with  him 
ere  suffering  him  to  reach  the  point.  Rapidly  she  went 
from  one  subject  to  another,  dragging  him  with  her  whether 
he  would  or  not,  until  at  last  as  if  suddenly  remembering 
herself,  she  turned  her  shining  eyes  upon  him,  and  said, 
"  I  have  talked  myself  out,  and  will  now  give  you  a  chance. 
You  wrote  that  you  wished  to  see  me." 

But  for  this  direct  allusion  to  his  note,  Arthur  would 
assuredly  have  gone  away,  leaving  his  errand  untold. 
But  he  could  not  do  so  now.  She  was  waiting  for  him  to 
Bpeak,  and  undoubtedly  wondering  at  his  silence.  Thrice 
he  attempted  to  articulate,  but  his  tongue  seemed  para- 
lyzed, and  reeking  with  perspiration,  he  sat  unable  to 
move  until  she  said  again,  "Is  it  of  Nina  you  would  tell 
me?" 

Then  the  spell  was  broken,  Nina  was  the  sesame  which 
unlocked  his  powers  of  speech ;  and  wiping  the  large 
drops  from  his  foiohead,  he  answered, 

"Yes,  Edith,  of  Nina,  of  myself,  of  you.  Edith,  you 
know  how  much  I  love  you,  don't  you,  darling  ?  " 

The  words  were  apparently  wrung  from  him  greatly 
against  his  will.  They  were  not  what  he  intended  to 
gay,  and  he  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  recalled 
them,  but  they  were  beyond  his  reach,  and  the  very  walli 
of  the  room  seemed  to  echo  in  thunder  tones, 


184  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  You  know  how  much  I  love  you,  don't  you,  darling  ? 

Yes,  she  did  know ;  he  knew  she  did  by  the  glance  she 
gave  him  back,  and  laying  his  head  upon  the  table,  he 
neither  moved  nor  spoke  until  a  footstep  glided  to  his  side, 
and  a  soft  hand  pressed  his  burning  brow,  while  a  voice, 
whose  tones  drifted  him  far,  far  back  to  the  sea  of  dark* 
ness  and  doubt  where  he  had  so  long  been  bravely  buffet' 
ting  the  billows,  whispered  to  him, 

"Arthur,  I  do  know,  or  rather  believe  you  love  me, 
You  would  not  tell  me  an  untruth,  but  I  do  not  under- 
stand why  it  should  make  you  so  unhappy." 

He  did  not  answer  her  at  once,  but  retained  within  his 
own  the  little  hand  which  trembled  for  a  moment  like  an 
imprisoned  bird  and  then  grew  warm  and  full  of  vigor- 
ous life  just  as  Edith  was,  standing  there  before  him. 
What  should  he  do  ?  What  could  he  do  ?  Surely,  never 
so  dark  an  hour  had  gathered  round  him,  or  one  so  fraught 
with  peril.  Like  lightning  his  mind  took  in  once  more 
the  whole  matter  as  it  was.  Griswold  was  dead.  On 
bis  grave  the'  autumn  leaves  were  falling  and  the  nightly 
vigils  by  that  grave  had  been  of  no  avail.  Nina  could 
never  comprehend,  the  written  proof  was  burned,  R>ch- 
ard  had  forgotten,  there  was  nothing  in  the  way  save  his 
conscience^  and  that  would  not  be  silent.  Loudly  it  whis- 
pered to  the  anguished  man  that  happiness  could  not  be 
secured  by  trampling  on  Nina's  rights;  that  remorse 
would  mix  itself  with  every  joy  and  at  the  last  would 
drive  him  mad. 

"You  mistake  me,  I  cannot,"  he  began  to  say,  but 
Edith  did  not  heed  it,  for  a  sound  without  had  caught  her 
ear,  telling  her  that  Richard  had  unexpectedly  ret  ..rned, 
and  Victor  was  coming  for  her. 

There  was  an  expression  of  imp.  ,tience  on  Edith's  face, 
as  to  Victor's  summons  she  replied,  "  Yes,  yes,  in  a  mo- 
ment ;"  but  Arthur  breathed  more  freely  as,  rising  1  .  his 
feet,  he  said,  "I  cannot  now  say  all  I  wish  to  sa^ba* 


THE   DECISION.  185 

meet  me,  to-morrow  at  this  hour  in  the  Deering  Woods, 
near  the  spot  where  the  mill  brook  falls  over  those  old 
stones.  You  know  the  place.  We  went  there  once  with 


He  wrung  her  hand,  pitying  her  more  than  he  did  him« 
self,  for  he  knew  how  little  she  suspected  the  true  nature 
dt  what  he  intended  to  tell  her. 

"  God  help  us  both,  me  to  do  right,  and  her  to  bear  it,n 
was  his  mental  prayer,  as  he  left  her  at  the  door  of  the 
room  where  Richard  was  waiting  for  her. 

There  were  good  and  bad  angels  tugging  at  Arthur's 
heart  as  he  hastened  across  the  fields  where  the  night 
Was  falling,  darker,  gloomier,  than  ever  it  fell  before. 
Would  it  be  a  deadly  sin  to  marry  Edith  Hastings? 
Would  Nina  be  wronged  if  he  did?  -were  questions 
which  the  bad  spirits  kept  whispering  in  his  ear,  and 
each  time  that  he  listened  to  these  questionings,  he  drift- 
ed further  and  further  away  from  the  right,  until  by  the 
time  his  home  was  reached  he  hardly  knew  himself  what 
his  intentions  were. 

Very  bright  were  the  lights  shining  in  the  windows  of 
his  home,  and  the  fire  blazed  cheerfully  in  the  library, 
where  Nina,  pale  and  fair  as  a  white  pond  lily,  had  order- 
ed the  supper  table  to  be  set,  because  she  thought  it 
would  please  him,  and  where,  with  her  golden  curls  tuck- 
ed behind  her  ears,  and  a  huge  white  apron  on,  she  knelt 
before  the  glowing  coals,  making  the  nicely-buttered  toast 
he  liked  so  well.  Turning  toward  him  her  childish  face 
as  he  came  in,  she  said, 

"See  —  Nina's  a  nice  little  housekeeper.  "Wouldn't  it 
be  famous  if  we  could  live  alone,  you  and  I  ?  " 

Arthur  groaned  inwardly,  but  made  her  no  reply.  Sit- 
ting down  in  his  arm-chair,  he  watched  her  intently  as 
she  made  his  tea,  removed  her  apron,  brushed  her  curls, 
and  then  took  her  seat  at  the  table,  bidding  him  do  the 
same.  Mechanically  he  obeyed,  affecting  to  eat  for  hef 


186  DABKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

sakg,  while  his  eyes  were  constantly  fastened  upon  hei 
face.  Supper  being  over  and  the  table  removed,  he  con» 
tinued  watching  her  intently  as  she  flitted  about  the 
room,  now  perching  herself  upon  his  knee,  calling  him 
"her  good  boy,"  now  holding  a  whispered  conversation 
with  Miggie,  who,  she  fancied,  was  there,  and  again  sing- 
ing to  herself  a  plaintive  song  she  had  sung  to  Dr.  Gris- 
wold.  When  it  drew  near  her  bedtime  she  went  to  the 
window,  from  which  the  curtain  was  thrown  back,  and 
looking  out  upon  the  blackness  of  the  night,  said  to 
Arthur, 

"The  darkness  is  very  dark.  I  should  think  poor  Dr. 
Griswold  would  be  afraid  lying  there  alone  in  that  nar- 
row grave.  What  made  him  die,  Arthur?  I  didn't 
want  him  to.  It  had  better  been  I,  hadn't  it  ?  " 

She  came  close  to  him  now,  and  sitting  on  his  knee 
held  his  bearded  chin  in  her  hand,  while  she  continued, 

"Would  my  poor  boy  be  very  lonesome,  knowing  that 
Nina  wasn't  here,  nor  up  stairs,  nor  in  the  Asylum,  nor 
over  at  Miggie's,  nor  anywhere  ?  Would  you  miss  me  a 
bit?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  " 

The  words  came  with  quick,  gasping  sobs,  for  in  his 
hour  of  bitterest  anguish,  Arthur  had  never  for  an  instant 
wished  Tier  gone  —  the  little  blue-eyed  creature  clinging 
BO  confidingly  to  him  and  asking  if  he  would  miss  her 
when  she  was  dead. 

"Nina's  would  be  a  little  grave,"  she  said,  "not  as 
large  as  Miggie's,  and  perhaps  it  won't  be  long  before 
they  dig  it.  I  can  wait.  You  can  wait;  can't  you, 
boy?" 

What  was  it  which  prompted  her  thus  to  speak  to  him  ? 
What  was  it  which  made  him  see  Griswold's  glance  in 
khe  eyes  looking  so  earnestly  to  his  own  ?  Surely  there 
was  something  more  than  mere  chance  in  all  this.  Nina 
would  save  him.  She  had  grasped  his  conscience,  and 


THE   DECISION.  187 

«he  stirred  it  with  no  gentle  hand,  until  the  awakened 
man  writhed  in  agony,  such  as  the  drowning  are  said  to 
feel  when  slowly  restored  to  life,  and  bowing  his  head  on 
Nina's,  he  cried, 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?    Tell  me,  Nina,  what  to  do ! " 

Once  before,  when  thus  appealed  to,  she  had  answered 
him,  "  Do  right,"  and  she  now  said  the  same  to  the  weep- 
ing man,  who  sobbed  aloud,  "  I  will.  I  will  tell  her  all 
to-morrow.  I  Vv'i.sh  it  were  to-morrow  now,  but  the  long 
Tight  must  intervene,  and  a  weak,  vacillating  fool  like  me 
may  waver  in  that  time.  Nina,"  and  he  held  her  closer 
to  him,  u  stay  here  with  me  till  morning.  I  am  stronger 
where  you  are.  The  sight  of  you  does  me  good.  Phillis 
will  fix  you  a  bed  upon  the  sofa  and  make  you  comforta- 
ble ;  will  you  stay  ?  " 

Every  novelty  was  pleasing  to  Nina  and  she  assented 
readily,  stipulating,  however,  that  he  should  not  look  at 
her  while  she  said  her  prayers." 

In  much  surprise  Phillis  heard  of  this  arrangement,  but 
offered  no  objection,  thinking  that  Arthur  had  probably 
detected  signs  of  a  frenzied  attack  and  chose  to  keep  her 
with  him  where  he  could  watch  her.  Alas !  they  little 
dreamed  that  'twas  to  save  himself  he  kept  her  there, 
kneeling  oftentimes  beside  her  as  she  slept,  and  from  the 
sight  of  her  helpless  innocence  gathering  strength  for  the 
morrow's  duty.  How  slowly  the  hours  of  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  night  dragged  on,  and  when  at  last  the  grey 
dawn  came  creeping  up  the  east,  how  short  they  seemed, 
looked  back  upon.  Through  them  all  Nina  had  slept 
quietly,  moving  only  once,  and  that  when  Arthur's  tears 
dropped  upon  her  face.  Then,  unconsciously,  she  put  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  murmured,  "It  will  all  be 
right  sometime." 

"  Whether  it  is  01  not,  I  will  do  right  to-day,"  Arthur 
Baid  aloud,  and  whet  the  sun  came  stealing  into  the  room, 
it  found  him  firm  as  a  granite  rock. 


188  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGEIT. 

Nina's  presence  saved  him,  and  when  the  clock  pointed 
to  three,  he  said  to  her,  "  Miggie  is  waiting  for  me  in  the 
Deering  woods,  where  the  mill-brook  falls  over  the  stones. 
Yon  called  it  Niagara,  you  know,  when  you  went  there 
once  with  us.  Go  to  Miggie,  Nina.  Tell  her  I'm  coming 
soon.  Tell  her  that  I  sent  you." 

"And  that  you  will  do  right ?"  interrupted  Niii*,  re- 
taining a  confused  remembrance  of  last  night's  conversa- 
tion. 

"Yes,  tell  her  Til  do  right.  Poor  Edith,  she  will  need 
your  sympathy  so  much ; "  and  with  trembling  hands  Ar- 
thur himself  wrapped  Nina's  shawl  around  her,  taking 
more  care  than  usual  to  see  that  she  was  shielded  from 
the  possibility  of  taking  cold ;  then,  leading  her  to  the 
door  and  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  miniature  Ni- 
agara he  bade  her  go,  watching  her  with  a  beating  heart 
as  she  bounded  across  the  fields  toward  the  Deering 
voods. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE   DEERING    WOODS. 

Edith  had  been  in  a  state  of  feverish  excitement  all 
the  day,  so  happy  had  she  been  made  by  the  certainty 
that  Arthur  loved  her.  She  had  not  doubted  it  before, 
but  having  it  told  her  in  so  many  words  was  delightful, 
and  she  could  scarcely  wait  for  the  hour  when  she  was  to 
hear  the  continuation  of  a  story  abruptly  terminated  by 
the  return  of  Richard.  Poor  Richard !  He  was  sit  ting 
in  his  library  now,  looking  so  lonely,  when  on  her  way 
through  the  hall  she  glanced  in  at  him,  that  she  almost 
cried  to  think  how  desolate  he  would  be  when  she  was 
gone. 


THE   DEEBING    WOODS.  189 

"Fll  co:xx  Arthur  to  come  here  and  live,"  she  said  to 
herself,  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have  Arthur 
and  Nina  and  Richard  all  in  one  house. 

The  hands  of  her  watch  were  pointing  to  three,  as,  step- 
ping out  upon  the  piazza  she  passed  hurriedly  through  tho 
grounds  and  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  Deeiing  Woods. 
Onward,  onward,  over  the  hill  and  across  the  fields  she 
flew,  until  the  woods  were  reached  —  the  silent,  leafless 
woods,  where  not  a  sound  was  heard  save  the  occasional 
dropping  of  a  nut,  the  rustle  of  a  leaf,  or  the  ripple  of 
the  mill-brook  falling  over  the  stones.  The  warm  sun  had 
dried  the  withered  grass,  and  she  sat  down  beneath  a  for- 
est tree,  watching,  waiting,  wondering,  and  trembling 
violently  at  last  as  in  the  distance  she  heard  the  cracking 
of  the  brittle  twigs  and  fancied  he  was  coming. 

"  I'll  pretend  I  don't  hear  him,"  she  said,  and  humming 
a  simple  air  she  was  industriously  pulling  the  bark  from 
the  tree  when  Nina  stood  before  her,  exclaiming, 

"You  are  here  just  as  Arthur  said  you'd  be.  The 
woods  were  so  still  and  smoky  that  I  was  moslf  afraid." 

Ordinarily  Edith  would  have  been  delighted  at  this 
meeting,  but  now  she  could  not  forbear  wishing  Nina 
away,  and  she  said  to  her  somewhat  sternly, 

"  What  made  you  come  ?  " 

"lie  sent  me,"  and  Nina  crouched  down  at  Edith's 
feet,  like  a  frightened  spaniel.  "Arthur  is  coming,  too, 
and  going  to  do  right.  He  said  he  was,  bending  right 
over  me  last  night,  and  when  I  woke  this  morning  there 
was  a  great  tear  on  my  face.  'Twasn't  mine,  Miggie.  It 
was  too  big  for  that.  It  was  Arthur's." 

"How  came  he  in  your  room?"  Edith  asked,  a  little 
iharply,  and  Nina  replied, 

"  I  was  in  the  library.  We  both  staid  there  all  night. 
It  wasn't  in  my  room,  though  Arthur  has  a  right,  Miggie. 
It  tiever  was  scratched  out !  " 

Edith  was  puzzled,  and  was  about  to  question  Nina  as 


190  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

to  her  meaning,  when  another  step  was  heard,  a  manly, 
heavy  tread,  precluding  all  possibility  of  a  mistake  this 
time.  Arthur  St.  Claire  had  come ! 

"  It's  quite  pleasant  since  yesterday,"  he  said,  trying  to 
force  a  smile,  but  it  was  a  sickly  effort,  and  only  made 
more  ghastly  and  wan  his  pallid  features,  over  which  age? 
seemed  to  have  passed  since  the  previous  day,  leaving 
them  scarred,  and  battered,  and  worn. 

Edith  had  never  noticed  so  great  a  change  in  so  short 
a  time,  for  there  was  scarcely  a  vestige  left  of  the  once 
handsome,  merry-hearted  Arthur  in  the  stooping,  haggard 
man,  who  stood  before  her,  with  blood-shot  eyes,  and  an 
humble,  deprecating  manner,  as  if  imploring  her  forgive- 
ness for  the  pain  he  had  come  to  inflict.  Nothing  could 
prevent  it  now.  Her  matchless  beauty  was  nought  to 
him.  He  did  not  even  see  it.  He  thought  of  her  only 
?.s  a  being  for  whose  sake  he  would  gladly  die  the  most 
torturing  deaiu  that  human  ingenuity  could  devise,  if 
by  this  means,  he  could  rescue  her  unscathed  from  the 
fire  he  had,  kindled  around  her.  But  this  could  not  be ; 
he  had  fallen,  dragging  her  down  with  him,  and  now  he 
must  restore  her  even  though  it  broke  her  heart  just 
as  his  was  broken.  He  had  felt  the  fibres  snapping,  one 
by  one ;  knew  his  life  blood  was  oozing  out,  drop  by  drop, 
and  this  it  was  which  made  him  hesitate  so  long.  It  was 
painful  for  him  to  speak,  his  throat  was  so  parched  and 
dry,  his  tongue  so  heavy  and  thick. 

"  What  is  it,  Arthur  ?  "  Edith  said  at  last,  as  Nina,  ut- 
tering a  cry  of  fear,  hid  her  face  in  the  grass  to  shut  out 
Arthur  from  her  sight.  "  Tell  me,  what  is  it  ?  " 

Seating  himself  upon  a  log  near  by,  and  clasping  his 
hands  together  with  a  gesture  of  abject  misery,  Arthur 
replied, 

"Edith,  I  am  not  worthy  to  look  into  your  face;  unless 
you  take  your  eyes  from  mine  —  oh,  take  them  away,  of 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  must." 


THE   DEEE1XG    WOODS.  191 

Had  her  very  life  depended  tipon  it,  Edith  could  not 
have  removed  her  eyes  from  his.  An  un'definable  fear 
was  curdling  her  blood  —  a  fear  augmented  by  the  posi 
lion  of  her  two  companions  —  Nina,  with  her  head  upon 
the  grass,  and  that  strange,  white-faced  being  on  the  log. 
Could  that  be  Arthur  St.  Claire,  or  was  she  laboring  un- 
der some  horrible  delusion?  No,  the  lips  moved  ;  it  was 
Arthur,  and  leaning  forward  she  listened  to  what  he  was 
saying. 

"  Edith,  when  yesterday  I  was  with  you,  some  words 
which  I  uttered  and  which  were  wrung  from  me,  I  know 
not  how,  gave  you  reason  to  believe  that  I  was  then  ask- 
ing you  to  become  my  wife,  while  something  in  your  man- 
ner told  me  that  to  such  asking  you  would  not  answer 
no.  The  temptation  then  to  take  you  to  my  arms,  defying 
earth  and  heaven,  was  a  terrible  one,  and  for  a  time  I  wa- 
vered, I  forgot  everything  but  my  love  for  you  ;  but  that 
is  past  and  I  come  now  to  the  hardest  part  of  all,  the  de- 
liberate surrender  of  one  dearer  than  life  itself.  Edith,  do 
you  remember  the  obstacle,  the  hindrance  which  I  always 
said  existed  to  my  marrying  any  one  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer ;  only  the  eyes  grew  larger  as  they 
watched  him ;  and  he  continued, 

"  I  made  myself  forget  it  for  a  time,  but  Heaven  was 
kinder  far  than  I  deserved,  and  will  not  suffer  me  longer. 
Edith,  you  cannot  be  my  wife." 

She  made  a  movement  as  if  she  would  go  to  him,  but 
his  swaying  arms  kept  her  off,  and  he  went  on  : 

M  There  is  an  obstacle,  Edith  —  a  mighty  obstacle.  I 
could  trample  it  down  if  I  would,  and  there  is  none  to 
question  the  act;  but,  Edith,  I  dare  not  do  you  this 
wrong." 

His  voice  was  more  natural  now,  and  Nina,  lifting  up 
her  head,  crept  closely  to  him,  whispering  softly,  "  Good 
boy,  you  will  do  right." 

His  long,  white  fingers  threaded  her  sunny  hair,  and 


192  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

this  was  all  the  token  he  gave  that  he  was  conscious  of 
her  presence. 

"Don't  you  know  now,  Edith,  what  it  is  which  stands 
between  us?"  he  asked;  and.  Edith  answered,  "It  ia 
Nina,  but  how  I  do  not  understand." 

Arthur  groaned  a  sharp,  bitter  groan,  and  rocking  to 
Kid  fro  replied,  "Must  I  tell  you?  Won't  you  ever 
guess  until  I  do?  Oh,  Edith,  Edith  —  put  the  past  and 
present  together  —  remember  the  picture  found  in  my 
room  when  you  were  a  little  girl,  the  picture  of  Nina  Ber 
nard  ;  think  of  all  that  has  happened  ;  my  dread  to  meet 
with  Richard,  though  that  you  possibly  did  not  know ;  my 
foolish  fear,  lest  you  should  know  of  Nina ;  her  clinging 
devotion  to  me;  my  brotherly  care  for  her;  Richard's 
story  of  the  one  single  marriage  ceremony  he  ever  per- 
formed, where  the  bride's  curls  were  like  these,"  and  he 
lifted  Nina's  golden  ringlets.  "  You  hear  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

He  knew  she  did,  for  her  bosom  was  heaving  with 
choking  sobs  as  if  her  soul  were  parting  from  the  body ; 
her  breath  came  heavily  from  between  her  quivering  lips, 
and  her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  him  like  coals  of  living 
fire.  Yes,  he  knew  she  heard,  and  he  only  questioned  her 
to  give  himself  another  moment  ere  he  cut  asunder  the 
last  chord  and  sent  her  drifting  out  upon  the  dark  sea  of 
despair. 

"Edith  —  Edith  —  Edith,"  and  with  each  word  he 
hugged  Nina  closer  to  him,  so  close  that  she  gave  a  cry 
of  pain,  but  he  did  not  heed  it;  he  hardly  knew  he  hold 
Ler  —  his  thoughts  were  all  for  the  poor,  wretched  girl, 
rising  slowly  to  her  feet.  "Edith,  you  surely  understand 

me  now.     The  obstacle  between  us  is ;  oh,  Nina,  say 

it  for  me,  tell  her  what  you  are  to  me.w 

tt  I  know,"  and  Edith  Hastings  stood  tall  and  erect  be- 
fore him.  "  NINA  is  YOUR  WIFE." 

Nina  looked  up  and  smiled,  while  Edith  crossed  hei 
arms  upon  her  breast,  and  waited  for  him  to  answer. 


THE   DEERING   WOODS.  198 

"  Yes,  Edith, —  though  never  before  acknowledged  aa 
such,  Nina  is  my  wife  ;  but,  Edith,  I  swear  it  before  high 
Heaven,  she  is  only  a  wife  in  name.  Never  for  a  day,  or 
hour,  or  moment  have  I  live'd  with  her  as  such.  Were  it 
otherwise,  I  could  not  have  fallen  so  low.  Her  father 
came  the  very  night  we  were  married,  and  took  her  away 
next  morning.  Griswold  and  I  must  have  met  him  just 
as  we  left  the  yard,  after  having  assisted  Nina  and  her 
room-ma,  e,  Sarah  Warren,  to  reach  the  window,  from 
which  they  had  adroitly  escaped  little  more  than  an  hour 
before.  No  one  had  missed  them, —  no  one  ever  suspect- 
ed the  truth,  and  as  Miss  Warren  died  a  few  months  after- 
ward, only  Nina,  Griswold  and  myself  knew  the  secret, 
which  I  guarded  most  carefully  for  fear  of  expulsion  from 
college.  You  know  the  rest.  You  know  it  all,  Nina  is 
my  wife.  Nina  is  my  wife,  —  my  wife, —  my  wife." 

He  kept  whispering  it  to  himself,  as  if  thus  he  would 
impress  it  the  more  forcibly  upon  the  unconscious  Edith, 
who  lay  upon  the  withered  grass  just  where  Nina  had 
lain,  rigid  and  white  and  free  for  the  present  from  all  suf- 
fering. Arthur  could  not  move ;  the  blow  had  fallen  on 
them  both  with  a  mightier  force  than  even  he  had  antici- 
pated, killing  her  he  feared,  and  so  benumbing  himself 
that  to  act  was  impossible,  and  he  continued  sitting  upon 
the  log  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees  and  his  face 
upon  his  hands.  Only  Nina  had  any  reason  then  or 
judgment.  Hastening  to  Edith  she  knelt  beside  her,  and 
lifting  up  her  head  pillowed  it  upon  her  lap,  wiping  from 
her  temple  the  drops  of  blood  slowly  trickling  from  a  cut, 
made  by  a  sharp  stone. 

u  Miggie,  Miggie,"  she  cried,  "  wake  up.  You  scare  me, 
you  LOOK  st  white  and  stiff.  Please  open  your  eyes,  dar- 
ling, just  a  little  ways,  so  Nina'll  know  that  you  ain't  dead. 
Oh,  Arthur,  she  is  dead!  "  and  Nina  shrieked  aloud,  when, 
opening  herself  the  lids,  she  saw  the  dull,  fixed  expression 
of  the  glassy  eye. 
9 


194  DARKNESS    A?TD   DAYLIGHT. 

Laying  her  back  upon  the  grass,  she  crept  to  Arthur's 
eide,  and  tried  to  rouse  him,  saying  imploringly,  "  Mig 
gie's  dead,  Arthur;  Miggie's  dead.  There  is  blood  all 
over  her  face.  Its'  on  me,  too,  look,"  and  she  held  before 
him  her  fingers,  covered  with  a  crimson  stain.  Even  this 
did  not  move  him ;  he  only  kissed  the  tiny  hand  wet 
with  Edith's  blood,  and  whispered  to  her,  "  Richard." 

It  was  enough.  Nina  comprehended  his  meaning  at 
once  ;  and  when  next  he  looked  about  him  she  was  flying 
like  a  deer  across  the  fields  to  Collingwood,  leaving  him 
alone  with  Edith.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  see  her 
face,  and  its  corpse-like  pallor  chilled  him  with  horror. 
He  must  go  to  her.  It  would  be  long  ere  Nina  guided 
the  blind  man  to  the  spot,  and,  exerting  all  his  strength, 
he  tottered  to  the  brook,  filled  his  hat  with  water,  and 
crawling,  rather  than  walking,  to  Edith's  side,  dashed  it 
upon  her  head,  washing  the  stains  of  blood  away,  and 
forcing  back  the  life  so  nearly  gone.  Gradually  the  eyes 
unclosed,  and  looked  into  his  with  a  glance  so  full  of  love, 
tenderness,  reproach,  and  cruel  disappointment,  that  he 
turned  away,  for  he  could  not  meet  that  look. 

The  blood  from  the  wound  upon  the  forehead  was 
flowing  freely  now,  and  faint  from  its  loss,  Edith  sank 
again  into  a  state  of  unconsciousness,  while  Arthur, 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  crept  away  to  a  little  dis- 
tance, where,  leaning  against  a  tree,  he  sat  insensible  as  it 
were,  until  the  sound  of  footsteps  roused  him,  and  he  saw 
Nina  coming,  holding  fast  to  the  blind  man's  wrist,  and 
saying  to  him  encouragingly, 

"We  are  almost  there.  I  see  her  dress  now  by  the 
bank.  Wake  up,  Miggie;  we're  coming  —  Richard  anrl 
L  Don't  you  hear  me,  Miggie  "i  " 


Victor  had  been  sent  to  the  village  upon  an  errand  fol 
Kichard,  who  was  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  just  where 


THE    PEERING   WOODS.  195 

Edith  had  left  him  an  hour  before,  dozing  occasionally,  as 
was  his  custom,  after  dinner,  and  dreaming  of  his  singing 
bird. 

"Little    rose-bud,"   he    whispered    to    himself.    "It's 
strange  no  envious,  longing  eyes  have  sought  her  out  as 
yet,  and  tried  to  win  her  from  me.    There's  St.  Claire  — 
cannot  help  admiring  her,  but  thus  far  he's  been  very  dis 
creet,  I'm  sure.     Victor  would  tell  me  if  he  saw  any  indi 
cations  of  his  making  love  to  Edith." 

Deluded  Richard !  Victor  Dupres  kept  his  own  coun 
sel  with  regard  to  Edith  and  the  proprietor  of  Grassy 
Spring ;  and  when  questioned  by  his  master,  as  he  some- 
times was,  he   always   answered,  "Monsieur  St.  Claire 
does  nothing  out  of  the  way." 

So  Richard,  completely  blinded,  trusted  them  both,  and 
nad  no  suspicion  of  the  scene  enacted  that  afternoon  in 
the  Deering  Woods.  Hearing  a  swift  footstep  coming  up 
the  walk,  he  held  his  breath  to  listen,  thinking  it  was 
Edith,  but  a  moment  only  sufficed  to  tell  it  was  Nina. 
With  a  rapid,  bounding  tread  she  entered  the  library,  and 
gliding  to  his  side,  startled  him  with,  "  Come,  quick,  Mig- 
gie's  dead  —  dead  in  the  Deerjng  Woods ! " 

For  an  instant  Richard's  brain  reeled,  and  rings  of  fire 
danced  before  his  sightless  eyes ;  then,  remembering  the 
nature  of  the  one  who  had  brought  to  him  this  newsf 
hope  whispered  that  it  might  not  be  so  bad,  and  this  it 
was  which  buoyed  him  up  and  made  him  strong  to  follow 
his  strange  guide. 

***** 

Down  the  lane",  across  the  road,  and  over  the  fields  Nina 
led  him,  bareheaded  as  he  was,  and  in  his  thin-soled 
slippers,  which  were  torn  against  the  briers  and  stones, 
for  in  her  haste  Nina  did  not  stop  to  choose  the-smooth- 
est  path,  and  Richard  was  too  intent  on  Edith  to  heed 
the  roughness  of  the  way.  Many  qxiestions  he  asked  her 
as  to  the  cause  of  the  accident,  but  she  told  him  nothing 


\ttfl  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

save  that  "  Miggie  was  talking  and  fell  down  dead."  Sha 
did  not  mention  Arthur,  for,  fancying  that  he  had  in  some 
way  been  the  cause  of  the  disaster,  she  wished  to  shield 
him  from  all  censure,  consequently  Richard  had  no  idea 
of  the  crushed,  miserable  wretch  leaning  against  the  syca- 
more and  watching  him  as  he  came  up.  He  only  heard 
Nina's  cry,  "Wake  up,  Miggie,  Richard's  here ! " 

It  needed  more  than  that  appeal,  however,  to  rouse  the 
unconscious  girl,  and  Richard,  as  he  felt  her  cold,  clammy 
flesh,  wept  aloud,  fearing  lest  she  were  really  dead.  Eager 
ly  he  felt  for  her  heart,  knowing  then  that  she  still  lived. 

"  Edith,  darling,  speak  to  me,"  and  he  chafed  her  nerve- 
less hands,  bidding  Nina  bring  him  water  from  the  brook. 

Spying  Arthur's  hat  Nina  caught  it  up,  when  the 
thought  entered  her  mind,  "  He'll  wonder  whose  this  is." 
Then  with  a  look  of  subtle  cunning,  she  stole  up  behind 
the  blind  man,  and  placing  the  hat  suddenly  upon  his 
head,  withdrew  it  as  quickly,  saying,  "  I'll  get  it  in  this, 
shan't  I?" 

Richard  was  too  much  excited  to  know  whether  he  had 
worn  one  hat  or  a  dozen,  and  he  answered  her  at  once, 
"Use  it  of  course." 

The  cold  water  brought  by  Nina  roused  Edith  once 
more,  and  with  a  sigh  she  lay  back  on  Richard's  bosom, 
so  trustfully,  so  confidingly,  that  Arthur,  looking  on,  fore- 
saw what  the  future  would  bring,  literally  giving  her  up 
then  and  there  to  the  blind  man,  who,  as  if  accepting  the 
gift,  hugged  her  fondly  to  him  and  said  aloud,  "  I  thank 
the  good  Father  for  restoring  to  me  my  Edith." 

She  suffered  him  to  caress  her  as  much  as  he  liked,  and 
offered  no  remonstrance  when  lifting  her  in  his  strong 
arms,  lie  bade  Nina  lead  him  back  to  Collingwood.  Like 
a  weary  child  Edith  rested  her  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
looking  behind  once,  and  regarding  Arthur  with  a  look 
he  never  forgot,  even  when  the  darkness  in  which  he  now 
Was  groping  had  passed  away,  and  the  full  daylight  wai 


THE   DABKNESS   DEEPENS.  19? 

shining  o'er  him.  Leading  Richard  to  a  safe  distance, 
Nina  bade  him  wait  a  moment  while  she  went  back  for 
something  she  had  forgotten  —  then  hastening  to  Arthur's 
side  she  wound  her  arms  around  his  neck,  smoothed  his 
hair,  kissed  his  lips,  and  said  to  him  so  low  that  Richard 
could  not  hear, 

u  Nina  won't  desert  you.  Shell  come  to  you  again 
when  she  gets  Miggie  home  You  did  do  it,  didn't  you  f 
but  Nina'll  never  tell" 

Kissing  him  once  more,  she  bounded  away,  and  with 
feelings  of  anguish  which  more  than  compensated  for  hia 
error,  Arthur  looked  after  them  as  they  moved  slowly 
across  the  field,  Richard  sometimes  tottering  beneath  his 
load,  which,  nevertheless,  he  would  not  release,  and  Nina, 
holding  to  his  arm,  telling  him  where  to  go,  and  occasion- 
ally glancing  backward  toward  the  spot  where  Arthur  sat, 
until  the  night  shadows  were  falling,  and  he  shivered  with 
the  heavy  dew.  Nina  did  not  return,  and  thinking  that 
she  would  not,  he  started  for  home,  never  knowing  how 
he  reached  there,  or  when ;  only  this  he  knew,  no  one 
suspected  him  of  being  in  the  Deering  Woods  when 
Edith  Hastings  was  attacked  with  that  strange  fainting 
fit.  Thanks  for  this  to  little  Nina,  who,  returning  as  she 
had  promised,  found  the  forgotten  hat  still  dripping  with 
water,  and  hiding  it  beneath  her  shawl,  carried  it  safely 
to  Grassy  Spring,  where  it  would  betray  no  one. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

THE  DARKNESS    DEEPENS. 

Death  brooded  over  Collingwood,  and  his  black  wing 
beat  clamorously  against  the  windows  of  the  room  to 
which,  on  that  fearful  night,  Richard  had  borne  his  faint- 


198  DAJRKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

ing  burden,  an  1  where  for  days  and  weeks  she  lay  so  loif 
that  with  every  coming  morning  the  anxious  villagers  lis 
tened  for  the  first  stroke  of  the  bell  which  should  tell 
that  Edith  was  dead.  Various  were  the  rumors  concern- 
ing the  cause  of  her  illness,  all  agreeing  upon  one  point, 
to  wit,  that  she  had  fainted  suddenly  in  the  woods  with 
Nina,  and  in  falling,  had  received  a  deep  gash  upon  her 
forehead.  This  it  was  which  made  her  crazy,  the  people 
said,  and  the  physician  humored  the  belief,  although  with 
his  experience  he  knew  there  was  some  secret  SOITOW 
preying  upon  that  young  mind,  the  nature  of  which  he 
could  not  easily  guess.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it 
was  in  any  way  associated  with  Arthur  St.  Claire,  whose 
heart-broken  expression  told  how  much  he  suffered,  and 
how  dear  to  him  was  the.  delirious  girl,  who  never  breathed 
his  name,  or  gave  token  that  she  knew  of  his  existence. 
Every  morning,  regularly  he  rung  the  Collingwood  bell, 
which  was  always  answered  by  Victor,  between  whom  and 
himself  there  \vas  a  tacit  understanding,  perceptible  in  the 
fervent  manner  with  which  the  faithful  valet's  hand  was 
pressed  whenever  the  news  was  favorable.  He  did  not 
venture  into  her  presence,  though  repeatedly  urged  to  do 
BO  by  Grace,  who  mentally  accused  him  of  indifference 
toward  Edith.  Alas,  she  knew  not  of  the  nightly  vigils 
kept  by  the  wretched  man,  when  with  dim  eye  and  throb- 
bing head  he  humbled  himself  before  his  Maker,  praying 
to  be  forgiven  for  the  sorrow  he  had  wrought,  and  again 
wrestling  in  agony  for  the  young  girl,  whose  sick  room 
windows  he  could  see,  watching  the  livelong  night  the 
flickering  of  the  lamp,  and  fancying  he  could  tell  from  its 
position,  if  any  great  change  occurred  in  her. 

Richard  was  completely  crushed,  and  without  noticing 
any  one  he  sat  hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  night  after 
night,  always  in  one  place,  near  the  head  of  the  bed,  his 
hands  folded  submissively  together,  and  his  sightless  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  pillow,  where  he  knew  Edith  was,  with  a 


THE    DAKKXESS    DEEPENS.  199 

hopeless,  subdued  expression  touching  to  witness.  He  did 
not  weep,  but  his  dry,  red  eyes,  fastened  always  upon  the 
Bame  point,  told  of  sealed  fountains  where  the  hot  tears 
were  constantly  welling  up,  and  failing  to  find  egress 
without,  fell  upon  the  bruised  heart,  which  blistered  and 
burned  beneath  their  touch,  but  felt  no  relief  It  was  in 
vain  they  tried  to  persuade  him  to  leave  the  room ;  he 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  their  entreaties,  and  the  physician 
was  beginning  to  fear  for  his  reason,  when  crazy  Nina 
came  to  his  aid,  and  laying  her  moist  hand  upon  his  said 
to  him,  not  imploringly,  but  commandingly,  w  Come  with 
me." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  then  Richard  fol- 
lowed her  out  into  the  open  air,  sitting  where  she  bade 
him  sit,  and  offering  no  resistance  when  she  perched  her- 
self upon  his  knee  and  passed  her  arm  around  his  neck. 

u  Make  him  cry,  can't  you  ?  That  will  do  him  good," 
whispered  Victor,  who  had  come  out  with  them. 

Nina  knew  that  better  than  himself.  She  remembered 
the  time  when  the  sight  of  Edith  had  wrung  from  her 
torrents  of  tears,  cooling  her  burning  brow,  and  proving 
a  blessed  relief,  the  good  effects  of  which  were  visible  yet. 
And  now  it  was  her  task  to  make  the  blind  man  cry. 
She  recognized  something  familiar  in  the  hard,  stony  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  something  which  brought  back  the 
Asylum,  with  all  its  dreaded  horrors.  She  had  seen 
strong  men  there  look  just  as  he  was  looking.  Dr.  Gris- 
wold  had  called  them  crazy,  and  knowing  well  what  that 
word  implied  she  would  save  Richard  from  so  sad  a  fate. 

w  It  will  be  lonesome  for  you  when  Miggie's  gone,"  she 
§aid,  as  a  prelude  to  the  attempt ;  "  lonesomer  than  it  has 
ever  been  before ;  and  the  nights  will  be  so  dark,  for  when 
the  morning  comes  there'll  be  no  Miggie  here.  She  will 
look  sweetly  in  her  coifin,  but  you  can't  see  her,  can  you? 
You  can  -feel  how  beautiful  she  is,  perhaps ;  and  I  shall 
braid  her  hair  just  as  she  used  to  wear  it." 


200  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

There  was  a  perceptible  tremor  in  Richard's  frame 
and  perceiving  it,  Nina  continued  quickly, 

"  We  shall  never  forget  her,  shall  we  ?  and  we'll  often 
fancy  we  hear  her  singing  through  the  halls,  even  though 
we  know  she's  far  away  leading  the  choir  in  Heaven.  That 
will  be  a  pleasanter  sound,  won't  it,  than  the  echo  of  the 
bell  when  the  villagers  count  the  eighteen  strokes  and  a 
half,  and  know  it  tolls  for  Miggie  ?  The  hearse  wheels, 
too  —  how  often  we  shall  hear  them  grinding  through  the 
gravel,  as  they  will  grind,  making  a  little  track  when  they 
come  up,  and  a  deeper  one  when  they  go  away,  for  they'll 
cany  Miggie  then." 

"  Oh,  Nina !  hush,  hush !  No,  no  !  "  and  Richard's 
voice  was  choked  with  tears,  which  ran  over  his  face  like 
rain. 

Nina  had  achieved  her  object,  and,  with  a  most  satis- 
fied expression  she  watched  him  as  he  wept.  Her's 
was  a  triple  task,  caring  for  Richard,  caring  for  Arthur, 
and  caring  for  Edith,  but  most  faithfully  did  she  perform 
it.  Every  day,  when  the  sun  was  low  in  the  western  sky, 
she  stole  away  to  Grassy  Spring,  speaking  blessed  words 
of  comfort  to  the  despairing  Arthur,  who  waited  for  hot 
coming  as  for  the  visit  of  an  angel.  She  was  dearer  to 
him  now  since  he  had  confessed  his  sin  to  Edith,  and 
could  she  have  been  restored  to  reason  he  would  have 
compelled  himself  to  make  her  his  wife  in  reality  as  well 
as  in  name.  She  was  a  sweet  creature,  he  knew ;  and  he 
always  caressed  her  with  unwonted  tenderness  ere  he  sent 
her  back  to  the  sick  room,  where  Edith  ever  bemoaned 
her  absence,  missing  her  at  once,  asking  for  pretty  Nina, 
with  the  golden  hair.  She  apparently  did  not  remember 
that  Nina  stood  between  herself  and  Arthur  St.  Claire, 
or,  if  she  did,  she  bore  no  malice  for  the  patient,  all 
enduring  girl  who  nursed  her  with  so  much  care,  singing 
to  her  the  plaintive  German  air  once  sung  to  Dr.  Gris- 
Wold,  and  in  which  Edith  would  often  join,  taking  one 


THE  DABKNESS  DEEPENS.  £0| 

part,  while  Nina  sang  the  other ;  and  the  members  of  the 
household,  when  they  heard  the  strange  melody,  no* 
swelling  loud  and  full,  as  some  fitful  fancy  took  possession 
of  the  crazy  vocalists,  and  now  sinking  to  a  plaintive 
wail,  would  shudder,  and  turn  aside  to  weep,  for  there 
was  that  in  the  music  which  reminded  them  of  the  hearse 
wheels  grinding  down  the  gravel,  and  of  the  village  bell 
giving  the  eighteen  strokes.  Sometimes,  for  nearly  a 
whole  night  those  songs  of  the  olden  time  would  echo 
through  the  house,  and  with  each  note  she  sang  the  fever 
burned  more  fiercely  in  Edith's  veins,  and  her  glittering 
black  eyes  flashed  with  increased  fire,  while  her  fingers 
clutched  at  her  tangled  hair,  as  if  they  thus  would  keep 
time  to  the  thrilling  strain.  Her  hair  troubled  her,  it 
was  so  heavy,  so  thick,  so  much  in  her  way,  and  when  she 
manifested  a  propensity  to  relieve  herself  of  the  burden 
by  tearing  it  from  the  roots,  the  physician  commanded 
them  to  "ut  away  those  beautiful  shining  braids,  Edith's 
crowning  glory. 

It  was  necessary,  he  said,  and  the  sharp,  polished  scis- 
sors were  ready  for  the  task,  when  Nina,  stepping  in  be- 
tween them  and  the  blue-black  locks,  saved  the  latter 
from  the  nurse's  barbaric  hand.  She  remembered  well 
when  her  own  curls  had  fallen  one  by  one  beneath  the 
shears  of  an  unrelenting  nurse,  and  she  determined  at 
all  hazards  to  spare  Edith  from  a  like  fancied  indignity. 

"Miggie's  hair  shall  not  be  harmed,"  she  said,  covering 
with  her  apron  the  wealth  of  raven  tresses.  "  I  can  keep 
her  from  pulling  it.  I  can  manage  her ; "  and  the  sequel 
proved  that  she  was  right. 

It  was  a  singular  power  that  blue-eyed  blonde  possessed 
over  the  dark-eyed  brunette,  who  became  at  last  as  obe- 
dient to  Nina's  will  as  Nina  once  had  been  to  her's,  and 
it  was  amusing  to  watch  Nina  flitting  about  Edith,  now 
f  easoning  with,  now  coaxing,  and  again  threatening  hei 


202  DABKJTESS   AMD   DAYLIGHT. 

capricious  patient,  who  was  sure  eventually  to  do  as  she 
was  bidden. 

Only  once  while  the  delirium  lasted  did  Edith  refer  to 
Arthur,  and  then  she  said'  reproachfully,  "  Oh,  Nina,  what 
made  him  do  so  ?  " 

They  were  alone,  and  bending  over  her,  Nina  replied, 
w  1  am  so  sorry,  Miggie,  and  I'll  try  to  have  the  ugly  thing 
scratched  out" 

This  idea  once  fixed  in  Nina's  mind  could  not  easily  ba 
dislodged,  and  several  times  she  went  to  Richard,  asking 
him  to  scratch  it  out  I  Wishing  to  humor  her  as  far  as 
possible  he  always  answered  that  he  would  if  he  knew 
what  she  meant.  Nina  felt  that  she  must  not  explain, 
and  with  vigilant  cunning  she  studied  how  to  achieve  her 
end  without  betraying  Arthur.  It  came  to  her  one  night, 
and  whispering  to  Edith,  "  I  am  going  to  get  it  fixed," 
she  glided  from  the  room  and  sought  the  library  where  she 
was  sure  of  finding  Richard.  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock, 
but  he  had  not  yet  retired,  and  with  his  head  bent  for- 
ward he  sat  in  his  accustomed  place,  the  fire-light  shining 
on  his  face,  which  had  grown  fearfully  haggard  and  white 
within  the  last  two  weeks.  He  heard  Nina's  step,  and 
knowing  who  it  was,  asked  if  Edith  were  worse. 

"  No,"  returned  Nina,  "  she'll  live,  too,  if  you'll  only 
scratch  it  out." 

He  was  tired  of  asking  what  she  meant,  and  he  made 
no  answer.  But  Nina  was  too  intent  upon  other  matters 
to  heed  his  silence.  Going  to  his  secretary  she  arranged 
materials  for  writing,  and  then  taking  his  hand,  said,  in 
the  commanding  tone  she  used  toward  Edith  when  at  all 
refractory,  "  Come  and  write.  Tis  the  only  chance  of 
saving  her  life." 

"  Write  what  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair  and 
iuffered  her  to  lead  him  to  the  desk. 

He  had  written  occasionally  since  his  blindness,  but  it 
was  not  a  frequent  thing,  and  his  fingers  closed  awkward- 


THE   DARKNESS    DEEPENS.  203 

ly  about  the  pen  she  placed  in  his  hand.  Feeling  curioua 
to  know  the  meaning  of  all  this,  he  felt  for  the  paper  and 
then  said  to  her, 

"  I  am  ready  for  you  to  dictate." 

But  dictation  was  no  part  of  Nina's  intentions.  The 
lines  traced  upon  that  sheet  would  contain  a  secret  which 
Richard  must  not  know ;  and  with  a  merry  laugh,  as  she 
thought  how  she  would  cheat  him,  she  replied, 

"  No,  sir.  Only  Miggie  and  I  can  read  what  you  write. 
Nina  will  guide  your  hand  and  trace  the  words." 

Dipping  the  pen  afresh  into  the  ink,  she  bade  him  take 
it,  and  grasping  his  fingers,  guided  them  while  they  wrote 
as  follows : 

"  I,  THE  BLIND  MAN,  RlCHAKD  HARRINGTON, 

"  That  last  was  my  name,"  interrupted  Richard,  who 
was  rewarded  by  a  slight  pull  of  the  hair,  as  Nina  said. 

"  Hush,  be  quiet." 

A  great  blot  now  came  after  the  "Harrington,"  and 
wiping  it  up  with  the  unresisting  Richard's  coat  sleeve, 
Nina  continued : 

" DO  HEREBY  SOLEMNLY 

She  was  not  sure  whether  "  swear  "  or  "  declare  "  would 
be  the  more  proper  word,  and  she  questioned  Richard, 
who  decided  upon  "  swear "  as  the  stronger  of  the  two, 
and  she  went  on : 

" SWEAR  THAT  THE  MARRIAGE  OP 

"  As  true  as  you  live  you  can't  see  ?  "  she  asked,  looking 
curiously  into  the  sightless  eyes. 

"  No ;  I  can't  see,"  was  the  response,  and  satisfied  that 
she  was  safe,  Nina  made  him  write, 

"  —  ARTHUR  ST.  CLAIRE  AND  NINA  BERNARD, 

PERFORMED  AT  MY  HOUSE,  IN  MY  PRESENCE,  AND  BY  ME  — 

Nina  didn't  know  what,  but  remembering  a  phrase  she 
had  often  heard  used,  and  thinking  it  might  be  just  what 
was  needed,  she  said, 

u  Does  *  nidi  and  void"1  mean  '  scratched  out  ? ' " 


204  DABKNEfciS   AND    DAYLIGHT. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
Nina  added  with  immense  capitals, 

«  —  NULL  AND  VOID," 
to  what  he  had  already  written. 

"  I  reckon  it  will  be  better  to  have  your  name,"  she 
paid,  and  the  cramped  fingers  were  compelled  to  add : 
•«  RICHARD  HARRINGTON, 

COLLINGWOOD, 

November  25th,  18—" 

"There!"  and  Nina  glanced  with  an  unusual  amount 
of  satisfaction  at  the  wonderful  hieroglyphics  which  cov- 
ered nearly  an  entire  page  of  foolscap,  so  large  were  the 
letters  and  so  far  apart  the  words.  "  That'll  cure  her, 
sure,"  and  folding  it  up,  she  hastened  back  to  Edith's 
chamber. 

Old  Rachel  watched  that  night,  but  Nina  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  coaxing  her  from  the  room,  telling  her  she  need- 
ed sleep,  and  Miggie  was  so  much  more  quiet  when  alone 
with  her.  Rachel  knew  this  was  true,  and  after  an  hour 
or  so  withdrew  to  another  apartment,  leaving  Edith  alone 
with  Nina.  For  a  time  Edith  slept  quietly,  notwithstand- 
ing that  Nina  rattled  the  spoons  and  upset  a  chair,  hoping 
thus  to  wake  her. 

Meanwhile  Richard's  curiosity  had  been  thoroughly 
roused  with  regard  to  the  scratching  out,  and  knowing 
Victor  was  still  up,  he  summoned  him  to  his  presence,  re- 
peating to  him  what" had  just  occurred,  and  saying,  "If 
you  find  that  paper  read  it.  It  is  surely  right  for  me  to 
know  what  I  have  written." 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Victor,  bowing  himself  from  •„!  a 
room. 

Rightly  guessing  that  Nina  would  read  it  aloud  to 
Edith,  he  resolved  to  be  within  hearing  distance,  and 
when  he  heard  Rachel  leave  the  chamber  he  drew  near 
the  door,  left  ajar  for  the  purpose  of  admitting  fresher  air. 
From  his  position  he  saw  that  Edith  was  asleep,  while 


THE   DARKNESS   DEEPENS.  205 

Nina,  with  the  paper  clasped  tightly  in  her  hand,  sat 
watching  her.  Once  the  latter  thought  she  heard  a  sus- 
picious sound,  and  stealing  to  the  door  she  looked  up  and 
down  the  hall  where  a  lamp  Was  burning,  showing  that 
it  was  empty. 

u  It  must  have  been  the  wind,"  she  said,  resuming  her 
seat  by  the  bedside,  while  Victor  Dupres,  gliding  from  the 
sloset  where  he  had  taken  refuge,  stood  again  at  his  for- 
mer post,  waiting  for  that  deep  slumber  to  end. 

"  Xina,  are  you  here  ?  "  came  at  last  from  the  pale  lips, 
and  the  bright,  black  eyes  unclosed  looking  wistfully 
about  the  room. 

Silent  and  motionless  Victor  stood,  while  Nina,  bend- 
ing over  Edith,  answered,  "  Yes,  Miggie,  I  am  here,  and 
I've  brought  you  something  to  make  you  well.  He  wrote 
it  —  Richard  did  — just  now,  in  the  library.  Can  you  see 
if  I  bring  the  lamp  ?  "  and  thrusting  the  paper  into  Edith's 
hands  she  held  the  lamp  close  to  her  eyes. 

"  You  havn't  strength,  have  you  ? "  she  continued,  as 
Edith  paid  no  heed.  "Let  me  do  it  for  you,"  and  taking 
the  crumpled  sheet,  she  read  in  tones  distinct  and  clear : 

"  I,  the  blind  man,  ^Richard  Harrington,  do  hereby  sol- 
emnly swear  that  the  marriage  of  ARTHUR  ST.  CLAIRE 
and  NINA  BERNARD,  performed  at  my  house,  in  my 
presence,  and  by  me,  is  NULL  AND  VOID.  RICHARD  HAR- 
RINGTON, CoUingwood,  November  bth,  18  — " 

Slowly  a  faint  color  deepened  on  Edith's  cheek,  a  soft 
lustre  was  kindled  in  her  eye,  and  the  great  tears  dropped 
from  her  long  lashes.  Her  intellect  was  too  much  cloud 
ed  for  her  to  reason  clearly  upon  anything,  and  she  did  not, 
for  a  moment,  doubt  the  validity  of  what  she  heard. 
Richard  could  annul  the  marriage  if  he  would,  she  was 
sure,  and  row  that  he  had  done  so,  the  bitterness  of  death 
was  past, —  the  dark  river  forded,  and  she  was  saved. 
Nina  had  steered  the  foundering  bark  into  a  calm,  quiet 
and  exulting  in  her  good  work,  she  held  Edith's  head 


208  DABKNKSS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

upon  her  bosom,  and  whispered  to  her  of  the  joyoui 
future  when  she  would  live  with  Arthur. 

As  a  child  listens  to  an  exciting  tale  it  only  compre« 
hends  in  part,  so  Edith  listened  to  Nina,  a  smile  playing 
about  her  mouth  and  dancing  in  her  eyes,  which  at  last, 
us  the  low  voice  ceased,  closed  languidly  as  did  the  soft 
blue  orbs  above  them,  and  when  the  grey  dawn  stole  into 
the  room  it  found  them  sleeping  in  each  other's  arms, — 
the  noble-hearted  Nina  who  had  virtually  given  up  her 
husband  and  the  broken-hearted  Edith  who  had  accepted 
him.  They  made  a  beautiful  tableau,  and  Victor  for  a 
time  stood  watching  them,  wiping  the  moisture  from  his 
own  eyes,  and  muttering  to  himself,  "Poor  Edith,  I  under- 
stand it  now,  and  pity  you  so  much.  But  your  secret  is 
safe.  Not  for  worlds  would  I  betray  that  blessed  angel, 
Nina."  Then,  crossing  the  hall  with  a  cautious  tread,  he 
entered  his  own  apartment  and  sat  down  to  think. 

Victor  Dupres  knew  what  had  been  scratched  out! 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

PARTING. 

It  was  late  the  next  morning,  ere  Nina  and  Edith 
awoke  from  that  long  sleep,  which  proved  so  refreshing  to 
the  latter,  stilling  her  throbbing  pulse,  cooling  her  fever- 
ish brow,  and  subduing  the  wild  look  of  her  eyes,  which 
haa  in  them  the  clear  light  of  reason.  Edith  was  better. 
She  would  live,  the  physician  said,  feeling  a  glow  of  grati- 
fied vanity  as  he  thought  how  that  last  dose  of  medicine, 
giv^en  as  an  experiment,  and  about  which  he  had  been  so 
doubtful,  had  really  saved  her  life.  She  would  have  died 
without  it,  he  knew,  just  as  Mrs.  Matson,  who  inclined  to 
homoeopathic  principles,  knew  her  patient  wculd  hava 


PABTLXG.  207 

died  if  she  Lad  not  slily  thrown  it  in  the  fire,  substituting 
in  its  stead  sweetened  water  and  pills  of  bread. 

Victor  and  Nina,  too,  had  their  theory  with  regard  to 
the  real  cause  of  Edith's  convalescence,  but  each  kept  his 
own  counsel,  Victor  saying  to  Richard  when  questioned 
as  to  whether  he  had  read  the  paper  or  not, 

"  No,  Miss  Nina  keeps  it  clutched  tightly  in  her  1  anil, 
as  if  suspecting  my  design. ; 

In  the  course  of  the*day,  however,  Nina  relaxed  her 
vigilance,  and  Victor,  who  was  sent  up  stairs  with  wood, 
saw  the  important  document  lying  upon  the  hearth  rug, 
where  Nina  had  unconsciously  dropped  it. 

"  It's  safer  with  me,"  he  thought,  and  picking  it  up,  he 
carried  it  to  his  own  apartment,  locking  it  in  his  trunk 
where  he  knew  no  curious  eyes  would  ever  find  it. 

In  her  delight  at  Edith's  visible  improvement,  Nina 
forgot  the  paper  for  a  day  or  two,  and  when  at  last  sha 
did  remember  it,  making  anxious  inquiries  for  it,  Mrs. 
Matson,  who  was  not  the  greatest  stickler  for  the  truth, 
pacified  her  by  saying  she  had  burned  up  a  quantity  of 
waste  papers  scattered  on  the  floor,  and  presumed  this  was 
among  them.  As  Nina  cared  for  nothing  save  to  keep 
the  scratching  out  from  every  one  except  those  whom  it 
directly  concerned,  she  dismissed  the  subject  from  her 
mind,  and  devoted  herself  with  fresh  energy  to  Edith, 
who  daily  grew  better. 

She  had  not  seen  Arthur  since  that  night  in  the  Deering 
Woods,  neither  did  she  wish  to  see  him.  She  did  not 
love  him  now,  she  said ;  the  shock  had  been  so  great  as 
to  destroy  the  root  of  her  affections,  and  no  excuse  he 
could  offer  her  would  in  the  least  palliate  his  sin.  Edith 
was  very  harsh,  very  severe  toward  Arthur.  She  she  uld 
never  go  to  Grassy  Spring  again,  she  thought;  never 
look  upon  his  face  unless  he  came  to  Collingwood,  which 
she  hoped  he  would  not  do,  for  an  interview  could  only 
be  painful  to  them  both.  She  should  tell  him  how  do 


208  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

ceived  she  was  in  him,  and  Edith  s  cheeks  grew  red,  and 
her  eyes  unusually  bright,  as  she  mentally  framed  the 
speech  she  should  make  to  Arthur  St.  Claire,  if  ever  they 
did  meet.  Her  excitement  was  increasing,  when  Nina 
came  in,  and  tossing  bonnet  and  shawl  on  the  floor,  threw 
herself  upon  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  began  to  cryt 
exclaiming  between  each  sob, 

"Nina  can't  go!  Nina  won't  go,  and  leave  you  here 
alone !  I  told  him  so  the  vile  boy,  but  he  wouldn't  listen, 
and  Soph  is  packing  my  trunks.  Oh,  Miggie,  Miggie! 
how  can  I  go  without  you?  I  shall  tear  again,  and  be  as 
bad  as  ever." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Edith.  "  Where  are 
you  going,  and  why  ?  " 

Drying  her  tears,  Nina,  in  her  peculiar  way,  related  how 
4' Arthur  wouldn't  believe  it  was  scratched  out;  Rich- 
ard couldn't  do  such  a  thing,  he  said ;  nobody  could  do 
it,  but  a  divorce,  and  Arthur  wouldn't  submit  to  that. 
He  loves  me  better,  than  he  used  to  do,"  she  said ;  "  and 
he  talked  a  heap  about  how  he'd  fix  up  Sunny  Bank. 
Then  he  asked  me  how  I  liked  the  name  of  Nina 
St.  Claire.  I  hate  it ! "  and  the  blue  eyes  flashed  as 
Edith  had  never  seen  them  flash  before.  "  I  wont  be  his 
wife !  I'd  forgotten  all  what  it  was  that  happened  that 
night  until  he  told  it  to  you  in  the  woods.  Then  it  came 
back  to  me,  and  I  remembered  how  we  went  to  Richard, 
because  he  was  most  blind,  and  did  not  often  come  to 
Geneva.  That  was  Sarah  Warren's  plan  I  believe,  but 
my  head  has  ached  and  whirled  so  since  that  I  most  for- 
get. Only  this  I  know,  nothing  ever  came  of  it;  and 
Over  the  sea  I  loved  Charlie  Hudson,  and  didn't  love 
Arthur  But,  Miggie  he's  been  so  good  to  me  so  like  my 
mother.  He's  held  me  in  his  arms  a  heap  of  nights  when 
the  fire  was  in  my  brain;  and  once,  Miggie,  he  held  me 
BO  long,  and  I  tore  so  awfully,  that  he  fainted,  and  Dr 
Griswold  cried,  and  said,  'Poor  Arthur;  poor  boy/ 


PABTEfG.  209 

That's  when  I  bit  him!  —  bit  Arthur,  Miggie,  right  on 
nis  arm,  because  he  wouldn't  let  me  pull  his  hair.  Dr 
Griswold  shook  uie  mighty  hard,  but  Arthur  never  said  a 
word.  He  only  looked  at  me  so  sorry,  so  grieved  like, 
that  I  came  out  of  my  tantrum,  and  kissed  the  place. 
I've  kissed  it  ever  so  many  times  since  then,  and  Arthur 
knows  I'm  sorry.  I  ain't  a  fit  wife  for  him.  I  don't 
blame  him  for  wanting  you.  I  can't  see  the  wrong,  but 
it's  because  I'm  so  thick-headed,  I  suppose !  I  wish  I 
wasn't ! "  And  fixing  her  gaze  upon  the  window  opposite, 
Nina  seemed  to  be  living  over  the  past,  and  trying  to  ar 
range  the  events  of  her  life  in  some  clear,  tangible  form. 

Gradually  as  she  talked  Edith  had  softened  toward 
Arthur  —  poor  Arthur,  who  had  borne  so  much.  She 
might,  perhaps,  forgive  him,  but  to  forget  was  impossible. 
She  had  suffered  too  much  at  his  hands  for  that,  and  ut- 
tering a  faint  moan  as  she  thought  how  all  her  hopes  of 
happiness  were  blasted,  she  turned  on  her  pillow  just  as 
Nina,  coming  out  of  her  abstracted  fit,  said  to  her, 

"Did  I  tell  you  we  are  going  to  Florida  —  Arthur 
and  I  —  going  back  to  our  old  home,  in  two  or  three  days, 
Arthur  says  it  is  better  so.  Old  scenes  may  cure  me." 

Alas,  for  poor  human  nature.  Why  did  Edith's  heart 
throb  so  painfully,  as  she  thought  of  Nina  cured,  and 
taken  to  Arthur's  bosom  as  his  wife.  She  knew  she  could 
not  be  that  wife,  and  only  half  an  hour  before  she  had 
said  within  herself,  " I  hate  him"  Now,  however,  she 
was  conscious  of  a  strong  unwillingness  to  yield  to  anoth- 
er the  love  lost  to  her  forever,  and  covering  her  head  with 
the  sheet,  she  wept  to  think  how  desolate  her  life  would 
be  when  she  knew  that  far  away,  in  the  land  of  flowers, 
Arthur  was  learning  to  forget  her  and  bestowing  his  af- 
fection upon  restored,  rational  Nina. 

"Why  do  you  cry?"  asked  Nina,  whose  quick  ear  do 
tected  the  stifled  sobs.  "  Is  it  because  we  are  going  ?  I 
told  him  you  would,  when  he  bade  me  come  and  ask  if 
you  would  see  him  before  he  goes." 


210  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

"Did  he — did  he  send  me  that  message  ?  "  and  the  Edith,, 
who  wouldn't  for  the  world  meet  Arthur  St.  Claire  again, 
uncovered  her  face  eagerly.  "  Tell  him  to  come  to-morrow 
at  ten  o'clock.  I  am  the  strongest  then  ;  and  Nina,  will 
you  care  if  I  ask  you  to  stay  away  ?  I'd  rather  see  him 
alone." 

Edith's  voice  faltered  as  she  made  this  request,  but 
Nina  received  it  in  perfect  good  faith,  answering  that  she 
would  remain  at  home.  . 

u  I  must  go  now,"  she  added.  "  He's  waiting  for  me,  and 
I  do  so  hope  you'll  coax  him  to  stay  here.  I  hate  old 
Florida." 

Edith  ho.wever  felt  that  it  was  better  for  them  both  to 
part.  She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  own  heart,  and 
knew  that  its  bleeding  fibres  still  clung  to  him,  and  still 
would  cling  till  time  and  absence  had  healed  the  wound. 

*I  will  be  very  cold  and  indifferent  to-morrow,"  she 
said  to  herself,  when  after  Nina's  departure,  she  lay,  an- 
ticipating the  dreaded  meeting  and  working  herself  up  to 
such  a  pitch  of  excitement  that  the  physician  declared  her 
symptoms  worse,  asking  who  had  been  there,  and  saying 
no  one  must  see  her,  save  the  family,  for  several  days. 

The  doctor's  word  was  law  at  Collingwood,  and  with 
sinking  spirits  Edith  heard  Richard  in  the  hall  without, 
bidding  Mrs.  Matson  keep  every  body  from  the  sick  room 
for  a  week.  Even  Nina  was  not  to  be  admitted,  for  it 
was  clearly  proved  that  her  last  visit  had  made  Edith 
worse.  What  should  she  do  ?  Arthur  would  be  gone 
ere  the  week  went  by,  and  she  must  see  him.  Suddenly 
Victor  came  into  her  mind.  She  could  trust  him  to  man- 
age it,  and  when  that  night,  while  Mrs.  Matson  was  at 
her  tea  he  came  up  as  usual  with  wood,  she  said  to  him, 
**  Victor,  shut  the  door  so  no  one  can  hear,  and  then  come 
close  to  me." 

He  obeyed,  and  standing  by  her  bedside  waited  for  hez 
to  speak. 


PARTING.  211 

"  Victor,  Mr.  St.  Claire  is  going  to  Florida  in  a  day  o» 
two.  I've  promised  to  see  him  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock, 
and  Richard  says  no  one  can  come  in  here,  but  I  must  bid 
Arthur  good-bye  and  Nina,  too;  Can't  you  manage  it 
Victor?" 

"Certainly,"  returned  Victor,  who,  better  than  any 
one  else  knew  his  own  power  over  his  master.  "  You 
shall  see  Mr.  St.  Claire,  and  see  him  alone." 

Victor  had  not  promised  more  than  he  felt  able  to  per- 
form,  and  when  at  precisely  ten  o'clock  next  day  the  door 
bell  rang,  he  hastened  to  answer  the  summons,  admitting 
Arthur,  as  he  had  expected. 

"  I  called  to  see  Miss  Hastings,"  said  Arthur.  "  I  start 
for  Florida  to-morrow,  and  would  bid  her  good-bye." 

Showing  him  into  the  parlor,  Victor  sought  Richard's 
presence,  and  by  a  few  masterly  strokes  of  policy  and 
well- worded  arguments,  obtained  his  consent  for  Arthur 
to  see  Edith  just  a  few  moments. 

"  It  was  too  bad  to  send  him  away  without  even  a  good- 
bye, when  she  had  esteemed  him  so  highly  as  a  teacher," 
Richard  said,  unwittingly  repeating  Victor's  very  words 
—  that  a  refusal  would  do  her  more  injury  than  his  seeing 
her  could  possibly  do.  "  I'll  go  with  him.  Where  is  he  ?  " 
he  asked,  rising  to  his  feet. 

"  Now,  I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  you.  Let  him  talk  with 
her  alone.  Two  excite  her  a  great  deal  more  than  one, 
and  he  may  wish  to  say  some  things  concerning  Nina 
which  he  does  not  care  for  any  one  else  to  hear.  Theie 
is  a  mystery  about  her,  you  know." 

Richard  did  not  know,  but  he  suffered  himself  to  be 
persuaded,  and  Victor  returned  to  Arthur,  whom  he  con- 
ducted  in  triumph  to  the  door  of  Edith's  chamber.  She 
heard  his  well  known  step.  She  knew  that  he  was  coming, 
and  the  crimson  spots  upon  her  cheeks  told  how  much 
ihe  was  excited.  Arthur  did  not  offer  to  caress  her — he 


212  DARKNESS   AJSD   DAYLIGHT. 

dared  'not  do  that  now  —  but  he  knelt  by  her  side,  and 
burying  his  face  in  her  pillow,  said  to  her, 

"  I  have  come  for  your  forgiveness,  Edith.  I  could  not 
go  without  it.  Say  that  I  am  forgiven,  and  it  will  not  be 
so  hard  to  bid  you  farewell  forever." 

Edith  meant  to  be  Very  cold,  but  her  voice  was  choked 
as  she  replied, 

"I  can  forgive  you,  Arthur,  but  to  forget  is  harder  far. 
And  still  even  that  might  be  possible  were  I  the  only  one 
whom  you  have  wronged;  but  Nina — how  could  you 
prove  so  faithless  to  your  marriage  vow  ?  " 

44 Edith,"  and  Arthur  spoke  almost  sternly.  "You 
would  not  have  me  live  with  Nina  as  she  is  now." 

"  No,  no,"  she  moaned,  "  not  as  she  is  now,  but  years 
ago.  Why  didn't  you  acknowledge  her  as  your  wife, 
making  the  best  of  your  misfortune.  People  would  have 
pitied  you  so  much,  and  I  —  oh,  Arthur,  the  world  would 
not  then  have  been  so  dark,  so  dreary  for  me.  Why  did  you 
deceive  me,  Aithur  ?  It  makes  my  heart  ache  so  hard." 

"  Oh,  Edith,  Edith,  you  drive  me  mad,"  and  Arthur 
took  in  his  the  hand  which  all  the  time  had  unconsciously 
been  creeping  toward  him.  "  I  was-  a  boy,  a  mere  boy, 
and  Nina  was  a  little  girl.  We  thought  it  would  be 
romantic,  and  were  greatly  influenced  by  Nina's  room- 
mate, who  planned  the  whole  affair.  I  told  you  once  how 
Nina  wept,  pleading  with  her  father  to  let  her  stay  in 
Geneva,  but  I  have  not  told  you  that  she  begged  of  me 
to  tell  him  all,  while  I  unhesitatingly  refused.  I  knew 
expulsion  from  College  would  surely  be  the  result,  and  I 
was  far  too  ambitious  to  submit  to  this  degradation  when 
it  could  be  avoided.  You  know  of  the  gradual  change 
in  our  feelings  for  each  other,  know  what  followed  her 
coming  home,  and  you  can  perhaps  understand  how  I 
grew  so  morbidly  sensitive  to  anything  concerning  her, 
and  so  desirous  to  conceal  my  marriage  from  every  one. 
This,  of  course,  prompted  me  to  keep  her  existence  a 


PABTCfGS.  213 

secret  as  long  as  possible,  and,  in  my  efforts  to  do  so,  I 
can  -see  now  that  I  oftentimes  acted  the  part  of  a  fooL 
If  I  could  live  over  the  past  again  I  would  proclaim  from 
the  housetops  that  Nina  was  my  wife.  I  love  her  with  a 
different  love  since  I  told  you  all.  She  is  growing  fust 
into  my  heart,  and  I  have  hopes  that  a  sight  of  her  old 
home,  together  with  the  effects  of  her  native  air,  will  do 
her  good.  Griswold  always  said  it  would,  and  preposter 
ous  as  it  seems,  I  have  even  dared  to  dream  of  a  future, 
vhen  Nina  will  be  in  a  great  measure  restored  to  reason." 

"  If  she  does,  Arthur,  what  then  ?  "  and,  in  her  excite- 
ment, Edith  raised  herself  in  bed,  and  sat  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  which  grew  each  moment  rounder,  blacker, 
brightei,  but  had  in  them,  alas,  no  expression  of  joy ;  and 
when  in  answer  to  her  appeal,  Arthur  said, 

"  I  shall  make  her  my  wife,"  she  fell  back  upon  her  pil- 
low, uttering  a  moaning  cry,  which  to  the  startled  Arthur 
sounded  like, 

"  No,  no !  no,  no !  not  your  wife." 

"  Edith,"  and  rising  to  his  feet  Arthur  stood  with  fold- 
ed arms,  gazing  pityingly  upon  her,  himself  now  the 
stronger  of  the  two.  "  Edith,  you,  of  all  others,  must  not 
tempt  me  to  fall.  You  surely  will  counsel  me  to  do 
right !  Help  me  !  oh,  help  me !  I  am  so  weak,  and  I  feel 
my  good  resolutions  all  giving  way  at  sight  of  your  dis- 
tress !  If  it  will  take  one  iota  from  your  pain  to  know 
that  Nina  shall  never  be  my  acknowledged  wife,  save  as 
she  is  now,  I  will  swear  to  you  that,  were  her  reason  ten 
times  restored,  she  shall  not;  But,  Edith,  dc n't,  don't 
make  me  swear  it.  I  am  lost,  lost  if  you  do.  Help  me 
to  do  right,  won't  you,  Edith  ?  " 

He  knelt  beside  her  again,  pleading  with  her  not  to 
tempt  him  from  the  path  in  which  he  was  beginning  to 
Walk ;  and  Edith,  as  she  listened,  felt  the  last  link,  which 
bour.d  her  to  him,  snapping  asunder.  For  a  moment  she 
had  wavered ;  had  shrank  from  the  thought  that  any 


214  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

other  could  ever  stand  to  him  in  the  relation  she  onc« 
had  hoped  to  stand ;  but  that  weakness  was  over,  and 
while  chiding  herself  for  it,  she  hastened  to  make  amends, 
Turning  her  face  toward  him,  and  laying  both  her  hands 
on  his  bowed  head,  she  said, 

"  May  the  Good  Father  bless  you,  Arthur,  even  as  you 
prove  true  to  Nina.  I  have  loved  you,  more  than  you 
will  ever  know,  or  I  can  ever  tell,  and  my  poor,  braised 
heart  clings  to  you  still  with  a  mighty  grasp.  It  is  so 
hard  to  give  you  up,  but  it  is  right.  I  shall  think  of  you 
often  in  your  beautiful  Southern  home,  praying  always 
that  God  will  bless  you  and  forgive  you  at  the  last,  even 
as  I  forgive  you.  And  now  farewell,  my  Arthur,  I  once 
fondly  hoped  to  call  you,  but  mine  no  longer — Nincta 
Arthur  —  go." 

She  made  a  gesture  for  him  to  leave  her,  but  did  not 
unclose  her  eyes.  She  could  not  look  upon  him,  and 
know  it  was  the  last,  last  time,  but  she  offered  no  remon- 
strance when  he  left  upon  her  lips  a  kiss  so  full  of  hr.pe- 
less  and  yearning  tenderness  that  it  burned  there  many  a 
day  after  he  was  gone.  She  heard  him  turn  away,  heard 
him  cross  the  floor,  knew  he  paused  upon  the  threshold, 
and  still  her  eye-lids  never  opened,  though  the  hot  tears 
rained  over  her  face  in  torrents. 

"  The  sweetest  joy  I  have  ever  known  was  my  love  for 
you,  Edith  Hastings,"  he  whispered,  and  then  the  dooi 
was  closed  between  them. 

Down  the  winding  stairs  he  went,  Edith  counting  every 
step,  for  until  all  sound  of  him  had  ceased  she  could  not 
feel  that  they  were  parted  forever.  The  sounds  did  ceaso 
at  last,  he  had  bidden  Richard  a  calm  good-bye,  had  said 
good-bye  to  Victor,  and  now  he  was  going  from  the  hou*e, 
He  would  soon  be  out  of  sight,  and  with  an  intense  de- 
sire to  stamp  his  image  ripon  her  mind  just  as  he  was  now, 
the  changed,  repentant  Arthur,  Eldith  arose,  and  tottering 
to  the  window,  looked  after  him,  through  blinding  tears,  as 


PASTING.  215 

he  passed  slowly  from  her  sight,  and  then  crawling,  rathel 
than  walking  back  to  her  bed,  she  wept  herself  to  sleep. 

It  was  a  heavy,  unnatural  slumber,  and  when  she 
awoke  from  it,  the  fever  returned  with  redoubled  violence, 
I .linging  her  a  second  time  so  near  the  gates  of  death 
ihat  Arthur  St.  Claire  deferred  his  departure  for  several 
Jays,  and  Nina  became  again  the  nurse  of  the  sick  room. 
But  all  in  vain  were  her  soft  caresses  and  words  of  love. 
Edith  was  unconscious  of  everything,  arid  did  not  even 
know  when  Nina's  farewell  kiss  was  pressed  upon  her 
lips  and  Nina's  gentle  hands  smoothed  her  hair  for  the 
last  time.  A  vague  remembrance  she  had  of  an  angel 
flitting  around  the  room,  a  bright-haired  seraph,  who  held 
her  up  from  sinking  in  the  deep,  dark  river,  pointing  to 
the  friendly  shore  where  life  and  safety  lay,  and  this  was 
all  she  knew  of  a  parting  which  had  wrung  tears  from 
every  one  who  witnessed  it,  for  there  was  something 
wonderfully  touching  in  the  way  the  crazy  Nina  bade 
adieu  to  "Miggie,"  lamenting  that  she  must  leave  her 
amid  the  cold  northern  hills,  and  bidding  her  come  to  the 
southland,  where  the  magnolias  were  growing  and  flowers 
were  blossoming  all  the  day  long.  Seizing  the  scissors, 
which  lay  upon  the  stand,  she  severed  one  of  her  golden 
curls,  and  placing  it  on  Edith's  pillow,  glided  from  the 
room,  followed  by  the  blessing  of  those  who  had  learned 
to  love  the  beautiful  little  girl  as  such  as  she  deserved  to 
be  loved.  , 

*  »  *  *  * 

One  by  one  the  grey  December  days  went  by,  and 
Christmas  fires  were  kindled  on  many  a  festal  hearth, 
Then  the  New  Year  dawned  upon  the  world,  and  still  the 
thick,  dark  curtains  shaded  the  windows  of  Edith's  room 
But  there  came  a  day  at  last,  a  pleasant  January  day,  when 
the  curtains  were  removed,  the  blinds  thrown  open,  and 
the  warm  sunlight  came  in  shining  upon  Edith,  a  conval« 
eacent.  Very  frail  and  beautiful  she  looked  in  her  crim« 


216  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

eon  dressing  gown,  and  her  little  foot  sat  loosely  in  th« 
satin  slipper,  Grace  Atherton's  Chistmas  gift.  The  rich 
lace  frill  encircling  her  throat  was  fastened  with  a  locket 
pin  of  exquisitely  wrought  gold,  in  wliich  was  encased  a 
curl  of  soft,  yellow  hair,  Nina's  hair,  a  part  of  the  tress 
left  on  Edith's  pillow.  This  was  Richard's  idea,  —  Rich- 
trd's  New  Year's  gift  to  his  darling ;  but  Richard  was  not 
tfcsre  1o  share  in  the  general  joy. 

Just  across  the* hall,  in  a  chamber  darkened  as  hers  had 
been,  he  was  lying  now,  worn  out  with  constant  anxiety 
and  watching.  When  Nina  left,  his  prop  was  gone,  and 
the  fever  which  had  lain  in  wait  for  him  so  long,  kindled 
within  his  veins  a  fire  like  to  that  which  had  burned  in 
Edith's,  but  his  strong,  muscular  frame  met  it  fiercely,  and 
the  danger  had  been  comparatively  slight. 

All  this  Grace  told  to  Edith  on  that  morning  when  she 
was  first  suffered  to  sit  up,  and  asked  why  Richard  did  not 
come  to  share  her  happiness,  for  in  spite  of  one's  mental 
state,  the  first  feeling  of  returning  health  is  one  of  joy. 
Edith  felt  it  as  such  even  though  her  heart  was  so  sore 
that  every  beat  was  painful.  She  longed  to  speak  of 
Grassy  Spring,  but  would  not  trust  herself  until  Victor, 
reading  her  feelings  aright,  said  to  her  with  an  assumed 
indifference,  "  Mr.  St.  Claire's  house  is  shut  up,  all  but  the 
kitchen  and  the  negro  apartments.  They  are  there  yet, 
doing  nothing  and  having  a  good  time  generally." 

"  And  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Arthur,"  chimed  in  Mrs. 
Atherton,  while  the  eyes  resting  on  Victor's  face  turned 
quickly  to  hers.  "  They  reached  Sunny  Bank  in  safety, 
he  and  Nina,  and  Soph." 

"  And  Nina,"  Edith  asked  faintly,  "  how  is  she  ?  " 

"Improving,  Arthur  thinks,  though  she  misses  you  very 
much." 

Edith  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh,  and  when  next  she  spoke, 
she  said,  "  Take  me  to  the  window,  please,  I  want  to  see 
the  country." 


PAKTIXG.  217 

In  an  instant,  Victor,  who  knew  well  what  she  wanted, 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  carrying  her  to  the  window,  set 
her  down  iu  the  chair  which  Grace  brought  for  her ;  then, 
as  if  actuated  by  the  same  impulse,  both  left  her  and 
returned  to  the  fire,  while  she  looked  across  the  snow-clad 
fields  to  where  Grassy  Spring  reared  its  massive  walls,  now 
basking  in  the  winter  sun.  It  was  a  mournful  pleasure  to 
gaze  at  that  lonely  building,  with  its  barred  doors,  its 
closed  shutters,  and  the  numerous  other  tokens  it  gave  of 
being  nearly  deserted.  There  was  no  smoke  curling  from 
the  chimneys,  no  friendly  door  opened  wide,  no  sweet 
young  face  peering  from  the  iron  lattice  of  the  Den,  no 
Arthur,  no  Nina  there.  Nothing  but  piles  of  snow  upon 
the  roof,  snow  upon  the  window-sills,  snow  upon  the  door- 
steps, snow  upon  the  untrodden  walk,  snoW  on  the  leaf- 
less elms,  standing  there  so  bleak  and  brown.  Snow 
everywhere,  as  cold,  as  desolate  as  Edith's  heart,  and 
she  bade  Victor  take  her  back  again  to  the  warm 
grate  where  she  might  perhaps  forget  how  gloomy  and 
ead,  and  silent,  was  Grassy  Spring. 

"  Did  I  say  anything  when  I  was  delirious  —  anything 
[  ought  not  to  have  said  ?  "  she  suddenly  asked  of  Grace ; 
and  Victor,  as  if  she  had  questioned  him,  answered  quickly, 

"  Nothing,  nothing  —  all  is  safe." 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning,  Grace  Atherton's  eyes  turned 
upon  him,  while  he,  guessing  her  suspicions,  returned  her 
glance  with  one  as  strangely  inquisitive  as  her  own. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  I  verily  believe  she  knows,"  he  muttered, 
as  he  left  the  room,  and  repairing  to  his  own,  dived  to 
the  bottom  of  his  trunk,  to  make  sure  that  he  still  held  in 
his  possession  the  paper  on  which  it  had  been  "scratched 
out." 

That  night  as  Grace  Atherton  took  her  leave  of  Edith, 
she  bent  over  the  young  girl,  and  whispered  in  her  ear, 

"  I  know  it  all.    Arthur  told  me  the  night  before  he 
left.     God  pity  you,  Edith  !     God  pity  you ! " 
10 


818  DABKITESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   NINETEENTH   BIETH-DAT. 

Edith  was  nineteen.  She  was  no  longer  the  childish, 
merry-hearted  maiden  formerly  known  as  Edith  Hastings, 
Her  cruel  disappointment  had  ripened  her  into  a  sober, 
quiet  woman,  whose  songs  were  seldom  heard  in  the  halls 
of  Collingwood,  and  whose  bounding  steps  had  changed 
into  a  slower,  more  measured  tread. 

Still,  there  was  in  her  nature  too  much  of  life  and  vig- 
or to  be  crushed  out  at  once,  and  oftentimes  it  flashed  up 
with  something  of  its  olden  warmth,  and  the  musical 
laugh  fell  again  on  Richard's  listening  ear.  He  knew  she 
was  changed,  but  he  imputed  it  all  to  her  long,  fearful 
sickness ;  when  the  warm  summer  days  came  back,  she 
would  be  as  gay  as  ever,  he  thought,  or  if  she  did  not  he 
would  in  the  autumn  take  her  to  Florida  to  visit  Nina, 
for  whom  he  fancied  she  might  be  pining.  Once  he  said 
as  much  to  her,  but  his  blindness  was  a  shield  between 
them,  and  he  did  not  see  the  sudden  paling  of  her  cheek 
and  quivering  of  her  lip. 

Alas,  for  Richard,  that  he  walked  in  so  great  a  dark- 
ness. Hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  had  his  love  increased 
for  the  child  of  his  adoption,  until  now  she  was  a  part  of 
his  very  life,  pervading  every  corner  and  crevice  of  bis 
being.  He  only  lived  for  her,  and  in  his  mighty  love,  he 
became  selfishly  indifferent- to  all  else  around  him.  Edith 
was  all  he  cared  for;  —  to  have  her  with  him ; —  to  hea? 
her  voice,  —  to  know  that  she  was  sitting  near,  —  that  by 
Btretching  forth  his  hand  he  could  lay  it  on  her  head,  or 
fijel  her  beautiful  cheeks,  —  this  was  his  happiness  by  day, 
and  when  at  night  he  parted  unwillingly  from  her,  there 
Was  atill  a  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  he  should  meet 


THE   NINETEENTH   BIXTH-DAY.  219 

her  again  on  the  morrow, —  in  thinking  that  she  was  not 
far  away,  —  that  by  stepping  across  the  hall  and  knocking 
at  her  door  he  could  hear  her  sweet  voice  saying  to  him, 

"What  is  it,  Richard?" 

He  liked  to  have  her  call  him  Richard,  as  she  frequent- 
ly did.  It  narrowed  the  wide  gulf  of  twenty-one  years 
between  them,  bringing  him  nearer  to  her,  so  near,  in 
feet,  that  bridal  veils  and  orange  wreaths  now  formed  a 
rare  loveliness  walked  ever  at  his  side,  clothed  in  garments 
Buch  as  the  mistress  of  Collingwood's  half  million  ought 
to  wear,  and  this  maiden  was  Edith  —  the  Edith  who,  on 
her  nineteenth  birth-day,  sat  in  her  own  chamber  devis- 
ing a  thousand  different  ways  of  commencing  a  conversa- 
tion which  she  meant  to  have  with  her  guardian,  the  sub- 
ject of  said  conversation  being  no  less  a  personage  than 
Grace  Atherton.  Accidentally  Edith  had  learned  that  not 
the  Swedish  baby's  mother,  but  Grace  Elmendorff  had 
been  the  lady  who  jilted  Richard  Harrington,  and  that, 
repenting  bitterly  of  her  girlish  coquetry,  Mrs.  Atherton 
would  now  gladly  share  the  blind  man's  lot,  and  be  to  him 
what  she  had  not  been  to  her  aged,  gouty  lord.  Grace 
did  not  say  all  this  to  Edith,  it  is  true,  but  the  latter  read 
as  much  in  the  trembling  voice  and  tearful  eyes  with 
which  Grace  told  the  story  of  her  early  love,  and  to  her- 
self she  said,  "  I  will  bring  this  matter  about.  Richard 
often  talks  of  her  to  me,  asking  if  she  has  faded,  and  why 
she  does  not  come  more  frequently  to  Collingwood.  I 
will  speak  to  him  at  the  very  first  opportunity,  and  will 
tell  him  of  myTnistake,  and  ask  him  who  Eloise  Temple's 
mother  was,  and  why  he  was  so  much  interested  in  her." 

With  this  to  engross  her  mind  and  keep  it  from  dwell- 
i*g  too  much  upon  the  past,  Edith  became  more  like  her- 
self than  she  had  been  since  that  dreadful  scene  in  the 
Deering  woods.  Even  her  long  neglected  piano  was  vis- 
ited with  something  }f  her  former  interest,  she  practising 


220  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

the  songs  which  she  knew  Grace  could  sing  with  her,  and 
even  venturing  upon  two  or  three  duets,  of  which  Grace 
played  one  parC  It  would  be  so  nice,  she  thought,  to 
have  some  female  in  the  house  besides  old  Mrs.  Matson, 
and  she  pictured  just  how  Grace  would  look  in  her  white 
morning  gowns,  with  her  blue  eyes  and  chestnut  curls, 
presiding  at  the  breakfast  table  and  handling  the  silver 
coffee  urn  much  more  gracefully  than  she  could  do. 

It  was  a  pleasant  picture  of  domestic  bliss  which  Edith 
drew  that  April  morning,  and  it  brought  a  glow  to  her 
cheeks,  whence  the  roses  all  had  fled.  Once,  indeed,  as 
she  remembered  what  Arthur  had  said  concerning  Rich- 
ard's probable  intentions,  and  what  she  had  herself  more 
than  half  suspected,  she  shuddered  with  fear  lest  by 
pleading  for  Grace,  she  should  bring  a  fresh  trial  to  her- 
self. But  no,  whatever  Richard  miarht  once  have  thought 

7  O  O 

of  her,  his  treatment  now  was  so  fatherly  that  she  had 
nothing  to  fear,  and  with  her  mind  thus  at  ease  Edith 
waited  rather  impatiently  until  the  pleasant  April  day 
drew  to  its  close.  Supper  was  over,  the  cloth  removed, 
Victor  gone  to  an  Ethiopian  concert,  Mrs.  Matson  knit- 
ting in  her  room,  Sarah,  the  waiting-maid,  reading  a  yel- 
low covered  novel,  and  Richard  sitting  alone  in  his  libra- 
ry. 

Now  was  Edi tli's  time  if  ever,  and  thrusting  the  wors- 
ted work  she  was  crocheting  into  her  pocket,  she  stepped 
to  the  library  door  and  said  pleasantly  "  You  seem  to  be 
in  a  deep  study.  Possibly  you  don't  want  me  now  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered  quickly.  "I  always  want 
you." 

"  And  can  always  do  without  me,  too,  I  dare  say,"  Edith 
rejoined  playfully,  as  she  took  her  seat  upon  a  low  otto- 
man, near  him. 

"No,  I  couldn't,"  and  Richard  sighed  heavily.  "If  I 
had  not  you  I  should  not  care  to  live.  I  dreamed  last 
night  that  you  were  dead,  that  you  died  while  I  was  gone, 


T1IE    NINETEENTH    JIBTH-DAY.  221 

and  I  dug  you  up  with  ray  own  hands  just  to  look  upon 
your  face  again.  I  always  see  you  in  my  sleep.  I  am 
not  blind  then,  and  when  a  face  fairer,  more  beautiful  than 
any  of  which  the  poets  ever  sang,  flits  before  me,  I  whis- 
per to  myself,  '  that's  Edith,  —  that's  my  daylight.'  ' 

"  Oh,  mistaken  man,"  Edith  returned,  laughingly,  "  how 
terribly  you  would  be  disappointed  could  you  be  suddenly 
restored  to  sight  and  behold  the  long,  lank,  bony  creature 
Zknow  as  Edith  Hastings — low  forehead,  turned-up  nose, 
coarse,  black  hair,  all  falling  out,  black  eyes,  yellowish 
black  skin,  not  a  particle  of  red  in  it — the  fever  took  that 
away  and  has  not  brought  it  back.  Positively,  Richard, 
I'm  growing  horridly  ugly.  Even  my  hair,  which  I'll  con- 
fess I  did  use  to  think  was  splendid,  is  as  rough  as  a  chest- 
nut burr.  Feel  for  yourself,  if  you  don't  believe  me," 
and  she  laid  his  hand  upon  her  hair,  which,  though  beauti- 
ful and  abundant,  still  was  quite  uneven  and  had  lost 
some  of  its  former  satin  gloss. 

Richard  shook  his  head.  Edith's  description  of  her  per- 
sonal appearance  made  not  a  particle  of  difference  with 
him.  She  might  not,  perhaps,  have  recovered  her  good 
looks,  but  she  would  in  time.  She  was  improving  every 
day,  and  many  pronounced  her  handsomer  than  before  her 
sickness,  for  where  there  had  been,  perhaps,  a  superabun- 
dance of  color  and  health  there  was  now  a  pensive,  sub- 
dued beauty,  preferred  by  some  to  the  more  glowing, 
dashing  style  which  had  formerly  distinguished  Edith 
Hastings  from  every  one  else  in  Shannondale.  Something 
like  this  he  said  to  her,  but  Edith  only  laughed  and  con- 
tinued her  crocheting,  wondering  how  she  should  manage 
to  introduce  Grace  Atherton.  It  was  already  half-past 
eight,  Victor  might  soon  be  home,  and  if  she  spoke  to  him 
that  night  she  must  begin  at  once.  Clearing  her  throat 
and  making  a  feint  to  cough,  she  plunged  abruptly  into 
the  subject  by  saying,  "Richard,  why  have  you  never 
married?  Didn't  you  ever  see  anybody  you  loved  well 
enough?" 


222  DABKJTKSS   AND  DAYLIGHT. 

Richard's  heart  gave  one  great  throb  and  then  grew 
B till,  for  Edith  had  stumbled  upon  the  very  thing  upper- 
most in  his  mind.  "What  made  her  ?  Surely,  there  was 
a  Providence  in  it.  'Twas  an  omen  of  good,  boding  sue* 
cess  to  his  suit,  and  after  a  moment  he  replied, 

u  Strange  that  you  and  I  should  both  be  thinking  of 
matrimony.  Do  you  know  that  my  dreaming  you  were 
dead  is  a  sign  that  you  will  soon  be  married  ?  " 

"  I,  Mr.  Harrington ! "  and  Edith  started  quickly. 
"  The  sign  is  not  true.  I  shall  never  marry,  never.  I 
shall  live  here  always,  if  you'll  let  me,  but  I  do  want  you 
to  have  a  wife.  You  will  be  so  much  happier,  I  think. 
Shall  I  propose  one  for  you  ?  " 

"  Edith,"  Richard  answered,  "  sit  close  to  me  while  I 
fcell  you  of  one  I  once  wished  to  make  my  wife." 

Edith  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  he  placed  upon  her  head 
the  hands  which  were  cold  and  clammy  as  if  their  owner 
were  nerving  himself  for  some  mighty  effort. 

"  Edith,  in  my  early  manhood  I  loved  a  young  girl,  and 
I  thought  my  affection  returned,  but  a  wealthier,  older 
man  came  between  us,  and  she  chose  his  riches  in  prefer- 
ence to  walking  in  my  shadow,  for  such  she  termed  my 
father." 

"  But  she's  repented,  Mr.  Harrington  —  she  surely  has," 
and  Edith  dropped  her  work  in  her  earnestness  to  defend 
Grace  Atherton.  "  She  is  sorry  for  what  she  made  you 
suffer ;  she  has  loved  you  through  all,  and  would  be  yours 
now  if  you  wish  it,  I  am  sure.  You  do  wish  it,  Richard. 
You  will  forgive  Grace  Atherton,"  and  in  her  excitement 
Edith  knelt  before  him,  pleading  for  her  friend. 

Even  before  he  answered  her  she  knew  she  pleaded  in 
vain,  but  she  was  not  prepared  for  what  followed  the  si 
lence  Richard  was  first  to  break. 

"  Grace  Atherton  can  never  be  to  me  more  than  what 
she  is,  a  tried,  respected  friend.  My  boyish  passion  per 
ished  long  ago,  and  into  my  later  life  another  love  hag 


THE   NINETEENTH   BIRTH-DAT.  223 

crept,  compared  with  which  my  first  was  as  the  darkness 
to  thf\  full  noonday.  I  did  not  think  to  talk  of  this  to- 
night,  but  something  compels  me  to  do  so  —  tells  me  the 
time  Las  come,  and  Edith,  you  must  hear  me  before  you 
speak,  but  sit  here  where  I  can  touch  you,  and  when  I'm 
through  if  what  I've  said  meets  with  a  responsive  chord, 
lay  your  hand  in  mine,  and  I  shall  know  the  nature  of 
your  answer." 

It  was  coming  now  —  the  scene  which  Arthur  foresaw 
when,  sitting  in  the  Deering  woods,  with  life  and  sense 
crushed  out,  he  gave  his  Edith  up  to  one  more  worthy 
than  himself.  It  was  the  foreshadowing  of  the  "  Sacrifice? 
the  firfet  step  taken  toward  it,  and  as  oae  who,  seeing  his 
destiny  wrapping  itself  about  him  fold  on  fold,  sits  down 
stunned  and  powerless,  so  Edith  sat  just  where  he  bade 
her  sit,  and  listened  to  his  story. 

u  Years  ago,  Edith,  a  solitary,  wretched  man  I  lived  in 
my  ^ark  world  alone,  weary  of  life,  weary  of  every  thing, 
and  in  my  weariness  I  was  even  beginning  to  question 
the  justice  of  my  Creator  for  having  dealt  so  harshly 
witl  me,  when  one  day  a  wee  little  singing  bird,  whose 
mot  her  nest  had  been  made  desolate,  fluttered  down  at 
my  feet,  tired  like  myself,  and  footsore  even  with  the 
short  distance  it  had  come  on  life's  rough  journey.  There 
was  a  note  in  the  voice  of  this  singing  bird  which  spoke 
to  me  of  the  past,  and  so  my  interest  grew  in  the  helpless 
thing  until  at  last  it  came  to  nestle  at  my  side,  not  timid- 
ly, for  such  was  not  it's  nature,  but  as  if  it  had  a  right  to 
oe  there  —  a  right  to  be  caressed  and  loved  as  I  caressed 
and  loved  it,  for  I  did  learn  to  love  it,  Edith,  so  much,  oh, 
BO  much,  and  the  sound  of  it's  voice  was  sweeter  to  me 
than  the  music  of  the  Swedish  nightingale,  who  haa 
tilled  the  world  with  wonder. 

"Years  flew  by,  and  what  at  first  had  been  a  tiny 
fledgling,  became  a  very  queen  of  birds,  and  the  blind 
man's  heart  throbbed  with  pride  when  he  heard  people 


224  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

say  of  his  darling  that  she  was  marvellously  fair.  H« 
knew  it  was  not  for  him  to  look  upon  her  dark,  rich,  glow- 
ing beauty,  but  he  stamped  her  features  upon  his  mind  in 
characters  which  could  not  be  effaced,  and  always  in  hia 
dreams  her  face  sat  on  his  pillow,  watching  while  ho 
elept,  and  when  he  woke  bent  over  him,  whispering, 
'Poor  blind  man,' just  as  the  young  bird  had  whispered 
ere  it's  home  \v  as  in  his  bosom. 

"  Edith,  that  face  is  always  with  me,  and  should  it  pre- 
cede me  to  the  better  land,  I  shall  surely  know  it  from  all 
the  shining  throng.  I  shall  know  my  singing  bird,  which 
brought  to  our  darkened  household  the  glorious  daylight, 
just  as  Arthur  St.  Claire  said  she  would  when  he  asked 
me  to  take  her." 

From  the  ottoman  where  Edith  sat  there  came  a  low, 
choking  sound,  but  it  died  away  in  her  throat,  and  with 
her  hands  locked  so  firmly  together  that  the  taper  nails 
made  indentation  in  the  tender  flesh,  she  listened,  while 
Richard  continued : 

"  It  is  strange  no  one  has  robbed  me  of  my  gem.  Per- 
haps they  spared  me  in  their  pity  for  my  misfortune.  At 
all  events,  no  one  has  come  between  us,  not  even  Arthur 
St.  Claire,  who  is  every  way  a  desirable  match  for  her." 

Again  that  choked,  stifled  moan,  and  a  ring  of  blood 
told  where  the  sharp  nail  had  been,  but  Edith  heeded 
nothing  save  Richard's  voice,  saying  to  her, 

"  You  have  heard  of  little  streams  trickling  from  the 
heart  of  some  grim  old  mountain,  growing  in  size  and 
strength  as  they  advanced,  until  at  last  they  became  a 
mighty  river,  whose  course  nothing  could  impede.  Such, 
Edith,  is  my  love  for  that  singing  bird.  Little  by  litlJe, 
inch  by  inch,  it  has  grown  in  its  intensity  until  there  ia 
not  a  pulsation  of  my  being  which  does  not  bear  with  it 
thoughts  of  her.  But  my  bird  is  young  while  I  am  old. 
Her  mate  should  be  one  on  whose  head  the  summer  dews 
are  resting,  one  more  like  Arthur  St.  Claire,  and  not  an 


THB   XIKETEE1TTH   BIRTH-DAY^  225 

dwl  of  forty  years  growth  like  me ;  but  she  has  not 
chosen  such  an  one,  and  hope  has  whispered  to  the  tcugh 
old  owl  that  his  bright-eyed  dove  might  be  coaxed  into 
his  nest ;  might  fold  her  wings  there  forever,  nor  seek  to 
fly  away.  If  this  could  be,  Edith.  Oh,  if  this  could  be, 
Fd  guard  that  dove  so  tenderly  that  not  a  feather  should 
be  ruffled,  and  the  winds  of  heaven  should  not  blow  too 
roughly  on  my  darling.  Fd  line  her  cage  all  over  with 
gold  and  precioiis  stones,  but  the  most  costly  gem  of  all 
should  be  the  mighty  unspeakable  love  I'd  bear  to  her. 
Aye,  that  I  do  bear  her  now,  Edith,  —  my  daylight,  my 
life.  You  surely  comprehend  me  ;  tell  me,  then,  can  all 
this  be?  Give  me  the  token  I  desire." 

He  stretched  out  his  groping  hand,  which  swayed  back 
and  forth  in  the  empty  air,  but  felt  the  clasp  of  no  soft 
fingers  clinging  to  it,  and  a  wistful,  troubled  look  settled 
upon  the  face  of  the  blind  man,  just  as  a  chill  of  fear 
was  settling  upon  his  heart. 

"  Edith,  darling,  where  are  you  ?  "  and  his  hand  sought 
the  ottoman  where  she  had  been,  but  where  she  was  not 
now. 

Noiselessly,  as  he  talked,  she  had  crept  away  to  the 
lounge  in  the  corner,  where  she  crouched  like  a  frightened 
deer,  her  flesh  creeping  with  nervous  terror,  and  her  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  man  who  had  repeated  her  name,  asking 
where  she  was. 

"Here,  Richard,"  she  answered  at  last,  her  eyelids 
involuntarily  closing  when  she  saw  him  rising,  and  knew 
he  was  coming  toward  her. 

She  had  forgotten  her  promise  to  Arthur  that  she 
would  not  answer  Richard  "No,"  should  he  ask  her  to 
be  his  wife ;  that,  like  Nina's  "scratching  out,"  was  null 
and  void,  and  when  he  knelt  beside  her,  she  said  half 
bitterly, 

ult  must  not  \>e;the  singing  bird  cannot  mate  with  tin 


226  DARKNESS   AWD   DAYLIGHT 

Instantly  there  broke  from  the  blind  man's  lips  a  ciy 
of  agony  so  pitiful,  so  reproachful  in  its  tone,  that 
Edith  repented  her  insulting  words,  and  winding  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  entreated  his  forgiveness  for  having  so 
cruelly  mocked  him. 

"  You  called  yourself  so  first,"  she  sobbed,  "  or  I  should 
riot  have  thought  of  it.  Forgive  me.  Richard,  I  didn't 
jaean  t.  I  could  not  thus  pain  the  noblest,  truest  friend 
I  ever  had.  Forgive  your  singing  bird.  She  surely  did 
not  mean  it,"  and  Edith  pressed  her  burning  cheeks 
against  his  own. 

What  was  it  she  did  not  mean?  That  it  could  not  be, 
or  that  he  was  an  owl  ?  He  asked  himself  this  question 
many  times  during  the  moment  of  silence  which  inter- 
vened ;  then  as  he  felt  her  still  clinging  to  him,  his  love 
for  her  rolled  back  upon  him  with  overwhelming  force, 
and  kneeling  before  her  as  the  slave  to  his  master,  he 
pleaded  with  her  again  to  say  it  could  be,  the  greafhap- 
piness  he  had  dared  to  hope  for. 

"  Is  there  any  other  man  whom  my  darling  expects  to 
marry  ?  "  he  asked,  and  Edith  was  glad  he  put  the  ques- 
tion in  this  form,  as  without  prevarication  she  could 
promptly  answer, 

"  No,  Richard,  there  is  none." 

"Then  you  may  learn  to  love  me,"  Richard  said.  '"I 
can  wait,  I  can  wait;  but  must  it  be  very  long?  The 
days  will  be  so  dreary,  and  I  love  you  so  much  that  I  am 
lost  if  you  refuse.  Don't  make  my  darkness  darker,  Edith." 

He  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap,  still  kneeling  before  her, 
the  iron-willed  man  kneeling  to  the  weak  young  girl, 
whose  hands  were  folded  together  like  blocks  of  lead,  and 
gave  him  back  no  answering  caress,  only  the  words, 

"  Richard,  I  can't.  It's  too  sudden;  I  have  thought  of 
you  always  as  my  elder  brother.  Be  my  brother,  Richard, 
Take  me  as  your  sister,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  want  you  for  my  wife,"  and  his  voice  wag  foil 


THE    Nl^ETEEKTH   BIRTH-DAY.  227 

af  pleading  pathos.  "I  want  you  in  my  bosom.  I  r_eed 
you  there,  darling.  Need  some  one  to  comfort  me.  I've 
suffered  so  much,  for  your  sake,  too.  Oh,  Edith,  my  early 
manhood  was  wasted ;  I've  reached  the  autumn  time,  and 
the  gloom  which  wrapped  me  then  in  its  black  folds  lies 
around  me  still,  and  will  you  refuse  to  throw  over  my 
pathway  a  single  ray  of  sunlight?  No,  no,  Edith,  you 
won't,  you  can't.  I've  loved  you  too  much.  I've  lost  too 
much.  I'm  growing  old  —  and  —  oh.  Birdie,  Birdie,  Tm 
Kind!  Tm  blind!  " 

She  did  not  rightly  interpret  his  suffering  for  her  sake. 
She  thought  he  meant  his  present  pain,  and  she  sought  to 
soothe  him  as  best  she  could  without  raising  hopes  which 
never  could  be  realized.  He  understood  her  at  last ;  knew 
the  heart  he  offered  her  was  cast  back  upon  him,  and 
rising  from  his  kneeling  posture,  he  felt ,  his  way  back  to 
his  chair,  and  burying  his  head  upon  a  table  standing  near, 
Bobbed  as  Edith  had  never  heard  man  sob  before,  not  even 
Arthur  St.  Claire,  when  in  the  Deering  Woods  he  had 
rocked  to  and  fro  in  his  great  agony.  Sobs  they  were 
which  seemed  to  rend  his  broad  chest  asunder,  and  Edith 
et  opped  her  ears  to  shut  out  the  dreadful  sound. 

But  hark,  what  is  it  he  is  saying  ?  Edith  fain  would 
know,  and  listening  intently,  she  hears  him  unconsciously 
whispering  to  himself,  "  Oh,  Edith,  was  it  for  this  that 
I saved  you  from  the  Rhine,  periling  my  life  and  losing 
my  eyesight  ?  Better  that  you  had  died  in  the  deep  waters 
than  that  I  should  meet  this  hour  of  anguish" 

"  Richai-d,  Richard ! "  and  Edith  fairly  screamed  as  she 
flew  across  the  floor.  Lifting  up  his  head  she  pillowed  it 
upon  her  bosom,  and  showering  kisses  upon  his  quivering 
lips,  said  tc  him,  "  Tell  me  —  tell  me,  am  I  that  Swedish 
baby,  Jthat  Eloise  Temple  ?  " 

He  nodded  in  reply,  and  Edith  continued :  "  I  the  child 
for  whose  sake  you  were  made  blind !  Why  have  you 
not  told  me  before  ?  I  could  not  then  have  wounded  you 


228  DAEKHESS  .AND   DAYLIGHT. 

so  cruelly.  How  can  I  show  my  gratitude  ?  I  am  not 
worthy  of  you,  Richard;  not  worthy  to  bear  jour  name, 
much  less  to  be  your  bride,  but  such  as  I  am  take  me.  I 
cannot  longer  refuse.  Will  you,  Richard?  May  I  be 
your  wife  ?  " 

She  knelt  before  him  now  \  hers  was  thi  supplicating 
posture,  and  when  he  shook  his  head,  she  continued, 

"  You  think  it  a  sudden  change,  and  so  it  is,  but  I 
mean  it.  I'm  in  earnest.  I  do  love  you,  dearly,  oh.  so 
dearly,  and  by  and  by  I  shall  love  you  a  great  deal  more. 
Answer  me  —  may  I  be  your  wife  ?  " 

It  was  a  terrrible  temptation,  and  Richard  Harrington 
reeled  from  side  to  side  like  a  broken  reed,  while  his  lips 
vainly  essayed  to  speak  the  words  his  generous  nature 
bade  them  speak.  He  could  not  see  the  eagerness  of  the 
fair  young  face  upturned  to  his  —  the  clear,  truthful  light 
shining  in  Edith's  beautiful  dark  eyes,  telling  better  than 
words  could  tell  that  she  was  sincere  in  her  desire  to  join 
her  sweet  spring  life  with  his  autumn  days.  He  could 
not  see  this,  else  human  flesh  had  proved  too  weak  to  say 
what  he  did  say  at  last. 

"  No,  my  darling,  I  cannot  accept  a  love  born  of  grati- 
tude and  nothing  more.  You  remember  a  former  conver- 
sation concerning  this  Eloise  when  you  told  me  you  were 
glad  you  were  not  she,  as  in  case  you  were  you  should 
feel  compelled  to  be  grateful,  or  something  like  that,  where 
as  you  would  rather  render  your  services  to  me  from  love. 
Edith,  that  remark  prevented  me  from  telling  you  then 
that  you  were  Eloise,  the  Swedish  mother's  baby." 

Never  before  had  the  words  "that  Swedish  mother* 
touched  so  tender  a  chord  in  Edith's  heart  as  now,  and 
forgetting  every  thing  in  her  intense  desire  to  know  some- 
thing of  her  own  early  history,  she  exclaimed,  "  Xou 
knew  my  mother,  Richard.  You  have  heard  her  •voice, 
seen  her  face;  now  tell  me  of  her,  please.  Where  is  she? 
And  Marie,  too,  for  there  was  a  Marie.  Let's  forget  all 


THE   NINETEENTH   BIRTH-DAT.  229 

that's  been  said  within  the  last  half  hour.  Let's  begin 
anew,  making  believe  it's  yesterday  instead  of  now,  and, 
when  the  story  is  ended,  ask  me  again  if  the  singing  bird 
can  mate  with  the  eagle.  The  grand,  royal  eagle,  Richard, 
is  the  best  similitude  for  you,"  and  forcing  herself  to  sit 
upon  his  knee,  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  bidding 
fora  again  tell  her  of  her  mother. 

With  the  elastic  buoyancy  of  youth  Edith  could  easily 
fhake  off  the  gloom  which  for  a  few  brief  moments  hat? 
shrouded  hei  lik.e  a  pall,  but  not  so  with  Richard.  "  The 
singing-bird  must  not  mate  with  the  owl,"  rang  contin- 
ually in  his  ears.  It  was  her  real  sentiment  ho  knew, 
and  his  heart  ached  so  hard  as  he  thought  how  he  ha<* 
staked  his  all  on  her  and  lost  it. 

"  Begin,"  she  said,  "  Tell  me  where  you  first  met  my 
mother." 

Richard  heaved  a  sigh  which  smote  heavily  on  Edith's 
ear,  for  she  guessed  of  what  he  was  thinking,  and  she 
longed  to  reassure  him  of  her  intention  to  be  his  sight  here- 
after, but  he  was  about  to  speak  and  she  remained  silent. 

"  Your  mother,"  he  said,  "  was  a  Swede  by  birth,  and 
her  marvellous  beauty  first  attracted  your  father,  whose 
years  were  double  her  own." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  interrupted  Edith,  u  As  much  as  twen- 
ty-one years  older,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  More  than  that,"  answered  Richard,  a  half  pleased, 
half  bitter  smile  playing  over  his  dark  face.  "  Forgive 
me,  darling,  but  I'm  afraid  he  was  not  as  good  a  man  as 
lie  should  have  been,  or  as  kind  to  his  young  wife. 
Wlen  I  first  saw  her  she  lived  in  a  cottage  alone,  and  he 
was  gone.  She  missed  him  sadly,  and  her  sweet  voice 
seemed  full  of  tears  as  she  sang  her  girl  baby  to  sleep. 
You  have  her  voice,  Edith,  and  its  tones  came  back  to 
me  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  you  speak.  But  I  was  tell- 
ing of  your  father.  He  was  dissipated,  selfish  and  unprin- 
cipled,—  affectionate  and  kind  to  Petrea  one  day,  cold, 


230  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

card  and  brutal  the  next.  Still  she  loved  him  and  clung 
to  him,  for  he  was  the  father  of  her  child.  You  were  & 
beautiful  little  creature,  Edith,  and  I  loved  you  so  much 
that  when  I  knew  you  had  fallen  from  a  bluff  into  the 
river,  I  unhesitating1  y  plunged  after  you." 

"  I  remember  it,"  cried  Edith,  "  I  certainly  do,  or  elee 
\j  was  afterwards  told  to  me  so  often  that  it  seems  a 
*.,ality." 

"  The  latter  is  probably  the  fact,"  returned  Richard. 
"  You  were  too  young  to  retain  any  vivid  recollections 
of  that  fall." 

Still  Edith  persisted  that  she  did  remember  the  face  of 
a  little  girl  in  the  water  as  she  looked  over  the  rock,  and 
of  bending  to  touch  the  arm  extended  toward  her.  She 
remembered  Bingen,  too,  with  its  purple  grapes ;  else  why 
had  she  been  haunted  all  her  life  with  vine-clad  hills  and 
plaintive  airs. 

"  Your  mother  sang  to  you  the  airs,  while  your  nurse, 
whose  name  I  think  was  Marie,  told  you  of  the  grapes 
growing  on  the  hills,"  said  Richard.  "  She  was  a  faithful 
creature,  greatly  attached  to  your  mother,  but  a  bitter 
foe  of  your  father.  I  was  too  much  absorbed  in  the  shad- 
ow stealing  over  me  to  pay  much  heed  to  my  friends,  and 
after  they  left  Germany  I  lost  sight  of  them  entirely,  nor 
dreamed  that  the  little  girl  who  came  to  me  that  October 
morning  was  my  baby  Eloise.  Your  voice  always  puz- 
zled me,  and  something  I  overheard  you  saying  to  Grace 
one  day  about  your  mysterious  hauntings  of  the  past,  to- 
gether with  an  old  song  of  Petrea's  which  you  sang,  gaye 
me  my  first  suspicion  as  to  who  you  were,  and  decided 
me  upon  that  trip  to  New  York.  Going  first  to  the 
Asy-um  of  which  you  were  once  an  inmate,  I  managed 
after  much  diligent  inquiry  to  procure  the  address  of  the 
woman  who  brought  you  there  when  3*0  u  were  about 
three  years  old.  I  had  but  little  hope  of  finding  her,  but 
determining  to  persevere  I  sought  out  the  humble  cottage 


THE   NTtTETEEiSTH   BIRTH-DAY.  231 

in  the  suburbs  of  the  city.  It  was  inhabited  by  an  elder- 
ly  woman,  who  denied  all  knowledge  of  Edith  Hastings 
until  told  that  I  was  Richard  Harrington.  Then  her 
manner  changed  at  once,  and  to  my  delight  I  heard  that 
she  was  Marie's  sister.  She  owned  the  cottage,  had 
lived  there  more  than  twenty  years,  and  saw  your  moth- 
er die.  Petrea,  it  seems,  had  left  her  husband,  intending 
to  return  to  Sweden,  but  sickness  overtook  her,  and  she 
died  in  New  York,  committing  you  to  the  faithful  Marie's 
care  in  preference  to  your  father's.  Such  was  her  dread 
of  him  that  she  made  Marie  swear  to  keep  your  existence 
a  secret  from  him,  lest  he  should  take  you  back  to  a  place 
where  she  had  been  so  wretched,  and  where  all  the  influ- 
ences, she  thought,  were  bad.  She  would  rather  you 
should  be  poor,  she  said,  than  to  be  brought  up  by  him, 
and  as  a  means  of  eluding  discovery,  she  said  you  should 
not  bear  his  name,  and  with  her  dying  tears  she  baptised 
you  Edith  Hastings.  After  her  decease  Marie  wrote  to 
him,  that  both  of  you  were  dead,  and  he  came  on  at  once, 
seemed  very  penitent  and  sorry  when  it  was  too  late." 

**  Where  was  his  home  ? "  Edith  asked  eagerly ;  and 
Richard  replied, 

"  That  is  one  thing  I  neglected  to  enquire,  but  when  I 
met  him  in  Europe  I  had  the  impression  that  it  was  in 
one  of  the  Western  or  South-western  states." 

"  Is  he  still  alive  ?  "  Edith  asked  again,  a  daughter's 
love  slowly  gathering  in  her  heart  in  spite  of  the  father's 
cruelty  to  the  mother. 

"No,"  returned  Richard.  "Marie,  who  kept  sight  of 
his  movements,  wrote  to  her  sister  some  years  since  that 
he  was  dead,  though  when  he  died,  or  how,  Mrs.  Jamieson 
did  not  know.  She,  too,  was  ill  when  he  came  to  her 
house,  and  consequently  never  saw  him  herself." 

"  And  the  Asylum  —  how  came  I  there  ?  "  said  Edith  5 
end  Richard  replied, 

a  It  seams  your  mother  was  an  orphan,  and  had  no  neal 


232  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

relatives  to  whom  you  could  be  sent,  and  as  Marie  wan 
then  too  poor  and  dependent  to  support  you  she  placed 
you  in  the  Asylum  as  Edith  Hastings,  visiting  you  occa- 
sionally until  she  went  back  to  France,  her  native  coun- 
try. Her  intention  was  to  return  in  a  few  months,  but  a 
violent  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism  came  upon 
her,  depriving  her  of  the  use  of  her  limbs,  and  confining 
her  to  her  bed  for  years,  and  so  prevented  her  from  com- 
ing Lack.  Mrs.  Jamieson,  however,  kept  her  informed 
with  regard  to  you,  and  told  me  that  Marie  was  greatly 
pleased  when  she*  heard  you  were  with  me,  whom  she 
supposed- to  be  the  same  Richard  Harrington  who  had 
saved  your  life,  and  of  whom  her  mistress  had  often 
talked.  Marie  is  better  now,  and  when  I  saw  her  sister 
more  than  a  year  ago,  she  was  hoping  she  might  soon  re- 
visit America.  I  left  directions  for  her  to  visit  Colling- 
wood,  and  for  several  months  I  looked  for  her  a  little,  re- 
solving if  she  came,  to  question  her  minutely  concerning 
your  father.  He  must  have  left  a  fortune,  Edith,  which  by 
right  is  yours,  if  we  can  prove  that  you  are  his  child,  and 
with  Marie's  aid  I  hope  to  do  this  sometime.  I  have, 
however,  almost  given  her  up ;  but  now  that  you  know 
all  I  will  go  again  to  New  York,  and  seek  another  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Jamieson.  "Would  it  please  you  to  have 
the  little  orphan,  Edith  Hastings,  turn  out  to  be  an  heir 
ess?" 

"Not  for  my  own  sake,"  returned  Edith;  "but  if  it 
w  ould  make  you  love  me  more,  I  should  like  it ; "  and  she 
clung  closer  to  him  as  he  replied, 

"  Darling,  that  could  not  be.  I  loved  you  with  all  the 
powers  I  had,  even  before  I  knew  you  were  Petrea's 
child.  Beautiful  Petrea !  I  think  you  must  be  like  her, 
Edith,  except  that  you  are  taller.  She  was  your  father's 
second  wife.  THIS  I  knew  in  .Germany,  and  also  that 
there  was  a  child  of  Mr.  Temple's  first  marriage,  a  little 
girl,  he  said." 


THE   NTNETEEKTH   BIBTH-DAY.  233 

"A  child  —  a  little  girl,"  and  Edith  started  quickly, 
but  the  lightning  flash  which  had  once  gleamed  across  her 
bewildered  mind,  when  in  the  Den  she  stood  gazing  at 
the  picture  of  Miggie  Bernard,  did  not  come  back  to  her 
now,  neither  did  she  remember  Arthur's  story,  so  much 
like  Richard's.  She  only  thought  that  possibly  there  was 
somewhere  in  the  world  a  dear,  half-sister,  whom  she 
should  love  so  much,  could  she  only  find  her.  Edith  was 
a  famous  castle-builder,  and  forgetting  that  this  half-sister, 
were  she  living,  would  be  much  older  than  herself,  she 
thought  of  her  only  as  a  school-girl,  whose  home  should 
be  at  Collingwood,  and  on  whom  Mrs.  Richard  Harring- 
ton would  lavish  so  much  affection,  wasting  on  her  the 
surplus  love  which,  perhaps,  could  not  be  given  to  the 
father  —  husband.  How  then  was  her  castle  destroyed, 
when  Richard  said, 

"  She,  too,  is  dead,  so  Mrs.  Jamieson  told  me,  and  there 
is  none  of  the  family  left  save  you." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  where  mother  was  buried,"  Edith  sigh- 
ed, her  teai-s  falling  to  the  memory  of  her  girl  mother, 
whose  features  it  seemed  to  her  she  could  recall,  as  well 
as  a  death-bed  scene,  when  somebody  with  white  lips  and 
mournful  black  eyes  clasped  her  in  her  arms  and  prayed 
that  God  would  bless  her,  and  enable  her  always  to  do 
right. 

It  might  have  been  a  mere  fancy,  but  to  Edith  it  was  a 
reality,  and  she  said  within  herself, 

"  Yes,  darling  mother,  I  will  do  right,  and  as  I  am  sure 
you  would  approve  my  giving  myself  to  Richard,  so  I 
will  be  his  wife." 

One  wild,  longing,  painful  throb  her  heart  gave  to  the 
past  when  she  had  hoped  for  other  bridegroom  than  the 
middle-aged  man  on  whose  knee  she  sat,  and  then  laying 
her  hot  face  against  his  bearded  cheek,  she  whispered, 

"You've  told  the  story,  Richard.  It  does  not  need 
Marie  to  confirm  it,  though  she,  too,  will  come  sometime 


234  DABKKE8S   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

to  tell  me  who  I  am,  but  when  she  comes,  I  shan't  b€ 
Edith  Hastings,  shall  I.  The  initials  won't  be  changed, 
though.  They  will  be  'E.  H.'  still — Edith  Harrington 
It  has  not  a  bad  sound,  has  it  ?  " 

"  Don't,  darling,  please  don't,"  and  Richard's  voice  had 
in  it  a  tone  much  like  that  which  first  rang  through  the 
room,  when  Edith  said, 

« It  cannot  be." 

"  Richard,"  and  Edith  took  his  cold  face  between  her 
soft,  warm  hands,  "  Richard,  won't  you  let  the  singing 
bird  call  you  husband  ?  If  you  don't,  she  will  fly  away 
and  sing  to  some  one  else,  who  will  prize  her  songs.  I 
thought  you  loved  me,  Richard." 

"  Oh,  Edith,  my  precious  Edith !  If  I  knew  I  could 
make  the  love  grow  where  it  is  not  growing  —  the  right 
kind  of  love,  I  mean  —  I  would  not  hesitate  ;  but,  darling, 
Richard  Harrington  would  die  a  thousand  deaths  rather 
than  take  you  to  his  bosom  an  unloving  wife.  Remeni 
ber  that,  and  do  not  mock  me ;  do  not  deceive  me.  You 
think  now  in  the  first  flush  of  your  gratitude  to  me  foi 
having  saved  your  life  and  in  your  pity  for  my  blindness 
that  you  can  do  anything ;  but  wait  awhile  —  consider 
well  —  think  how  I  shall  be  old  while  you  still  are  young, 
—  a  tottering,  gray-haired  man,  while  your  blood  still 
retains  the  heat  of  youth.  The  Harringtons  live  long. 
I  may  see  a  hundred." 

"  And  I  shall  then  be  seventy-nine  not  so  vast  a  differ- 
ence," interrupted  Edith. 

"No,  not  a  vast  difference  then,"  Richard  rejoined, 
*  but  'tis  not  then  I  dread.  'Tis  now,  the  next  twenty-five 
years,  during  which  I  shall  be  slowly  decaying,  while  you 
mil  be  ripening  into  a  matured,  motherly  beauty,  dearer 
to  y  our  husband  than  all  your  girlish  loveliness.  'Tis  then 
that  I  dread  the  contrast  in  you ;  not  when  both  are  old; 
and,  Edith,  remember  this,  you  can  never  be  old  to  me, 
Inasmuch  as  I  can  never  see  you.  I  may  feel  that  your 


THE   NINETEENTH   BIRTH-DAT.  235 

smooth,  velvety  flesh  is  wrinkled,  that  your  shining  Laii 
is  thin,  your  soft  round  arms  more  sinewy  and  hard,  but  1 
cannot  see  it,  and  in  my  heart  I  shall  cherish  ever  the 
image  I  first  loved  as  Edith  Hastings.  You,  on  the  con- 
trary, will  watch  the  work  of  death  go  on  in  me,  will  see 
my  hair  turn  gray,  my  form  begin  to  stoop,  my  hand  to 
tremble,  my  eyes  grow  blear  and  watery,  and  when  all 
this  has  come  to  pass,  won't  you  sicken  of  the  shaky  old 
man  and  sigh  for  a  younger,  more  vigorous  companion  ?" 

"  Not  unless  you  show  me  such  horrid  pictures,"  Edith 
sobbed,  impetuously,  for  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  felt  the 
truth  of  every  word  he  uttered,  and  her  whole  soul  revolt- 
ed against  the  view  presented  to  her  of  the  coming  time. 

But  she  would  conquer  such  feelings  —  she  would  be 
his  wife,  and  drying  her  eyes  she  said,  "  I  can  give  you 
my  decision  now  as  well  as  at  any  other  time,  but  if  you 
prefer  it,  I  will  wait  four  weeks  and  then  bring  you  the 
same  answer  I  make  you  now  —  I  will  be  your  wife." 

"I  dare  not  hope  it,"  returned  Richard,  "You  will 
change  your  mind,  I  fear,  but,  Edith,  if  you  do  not, — 
if  you  promise  to  be  mine,  don't  forsake  me  afterwardsj 
for  I  should  surely  die,"  and  as  if  he  already  felt  the  ago- 
ny it  would  cost  him  to  give  his  darling  up  after  he  had 
once  possessed  her,  he  clasped  his  hands  upon  his  heart, 
which  throbbed  so  rapidly  that  Edith  heard  its  muffled 
beat  and  saw  its  rise  and  fall.  "  I  could  not  lose  you  and 
still  live  on  without  you,  Edith,"  and  he  spoke  impetuously, 
"  You  won't  desert  me,  if  you  promise  once." 

"  Never,  never,"  she  answered,  and  with  a  good  night 
kiss  upon  his  lips  she  went  out  from  the  presence  of  tl'e 
man  she  already  looked  upon  as  her  future  husband, 
breathing  freer  when  she  stood  within  the  hall  where  he 
was  not,  and  freer  still  when  in  her  own  chamber  there 
was  a  greater  distance  between  them. 

Alas,  for  Edith,  and  a  thousand  times  alas,  for  poor, 
poor  Richard ! 


286  DABKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

DESTINY. 

Not  lor  one  moment  did  Edith  waver  in  her  purpose} 
and  lest  Richard  should  suspect  what  he  could  not  see, 
ghe  affected  a  gayety  in  his  presence  sadly  at  variance 
with  her  real  feelings.  Never  had  her  merry  laugh  rang 
out  so  frequently  before  him  —  never  had  her  wit  been 
one  half  so  sparkling,  and  when  he  passed  his  hands  over 
her  flushed  cheek,  feeling  how  hot  it  Avas,  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  The  roses  are  coming  back,  she  cannot  be  unhappy," 
and  every  line  and  lineament  of  the  blind  man's  face 
glowed  with  the  new-born  joy  springing  up  within  hia 
heart,  and  making  the  world  around  him  one  grand  ju- 
bilee. 

Victor  was  quick  to  note  the  change  in  his  master,  and 
without  the  least  suspicion  of  the  truth,  he  once  asked 
Edith,  "  What  made  Mr.  Harrington  so  young  and  almost 
boyish,  acting  as  men  were  supposed  to  act  when  they 
were  just  engaged  ?  " 

"  Victor,"  said  Edith,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "  can 
you  keep  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied.  "  What  is  it,  pray  ?  Is  Mr. 
Harrington  matrimonially  inclined  ?  " 

Edith's  heart  yearned  for  sympathy  —  for  some  one  to 
sustain  her — to  keep  her  from  fainting  by  the  wayside, 
and  as  she  could  not  confide  in  Grace,  Victor  was  her 
only  remaining  refuge.  He  had  been  the  repositary  of  all 
her  childish  secrets,  entering  into  her  feelings  as  readily 
and  even  more  demonstratively  than  any  female  friend 
could  have  done.  Richard  would  tell  him,  of  course,  aa 
•oon  as  it  was  settled,  and  as  she  knew  now  that  it  wan 


237 

settled,  why  not  speak  first  and  so  save  him  the  trouble 
Thus  deciding,  she  replied  to  his  question, 

"  Yes,  Richard  is  going  to  be  married ;  but  you  must 
not  let  him  know  I  told  you,  till  the  engagement  is  made 
public." 

Victor  started,  but  had  no  shadow  of  suspicion  that* 
the  young  girl  before  him  was  the  bride  elect.  His  mas- 
ter had  once  been  foolish  enough  to  think  of  her  as  such 
he  believed,  but  that  time  was  passed.  Richard  had  grown 
mjre  sensible,  and  Edith  was  the  future  wife  of  Arthur 
St.  Claire.  Nina  would  not  live  long,  and  after  she  was 
dead  there  would  be  no  further  hindrance  to  a  match 
every  way  so  suitable.  This  was  Victor's  theory,  and 
never  doubting  that  the  same  idea  had  a  lodgment  in 
the  minds  of  both  Arthur  and  Edith,  he  could  not  con- 
ceive it  possible  that  the  latter  would  deliberately  give 
herself  to  Richard.  Grace  Atherton,  on  the  contrary, 
would  be  glad  to  do  it ;  she  had.  been  coaxing  his  master 
these  forty  years,  and  had  succeeded  in  winning  him  at 
last.  Victor  did  not  fancy  Grace ;  and  when  at  last  he 
spoke,  it  was  to  call  both  his  master  and  Mrs.  Atherton  a 
pair  of  precious  fools.  Edith  looked  wonderingly  at  him 
as  he  raved  on. 

"  I  can't  bear  her,  I  never  could,  since  I  heard  how  she 
abused  you.  Why,  I'd  almost  rather  you'd  be  his  wife 
than  that  gay  widow." 

"  Suppose  I  marry  him  then  in  her  stead,"  Edith  said, 
laughingly.  "  I  verily  believe  he'd  exchange." 

"  Of  course  he  would,"  Victor  answered,  bitterly. 
*  The  older  a  man  grows,  the  younger  the  girl  he  selects, 
and  it's  a  wonder  he  didn't  ask  you  first." 

"  Supposing  he  had  ?  "  returned  Edith,  bending  over  a 
geranium  to  hide  her  agitation.  "  Supposing  he  had,  and 
it  was  I  instead  of  Grace  to  whom  he  is  engaged." 

"Preposterous ! "  Victor  exclaimed.  "  You  could  not 
dc  such  a  thing  ip  your  right  senses.  Why,  I'd  rather  see 


238  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

you  dead  than  married  to  your  father.  I  believe  I'd  for 
bid  the  banns  myself"  and  Victor  strode  from  the  room, 
banging  the  door  behind  him,  by  way  of  impressing 
Edith  still  more  forcibly  with  the  nature  of  his  opinion. 

Edith  was  disappointed.  She  had  expected  sympathy 
at  least  from  Victor,  had  surely  thought  he  would  be 
pleased  to  have  her  for  his  mistress,  and  his  words,  "  I 
would  rather  see  you  dead,"  hurt  her  cruelly.  Perhaps 
every  body  would  say  so.  It  was  an  unnatural  match, 
this  union  of  autumn  and  spring,  but  she  must  do  some- 
thing. Any  thing  was  preferable  to  the  aimless,  listless 
life  she  was  leading  now.  She  could  not  be  any  more 
wretched  than  she  was,.and  she  might  perhaps  be  happier 
when  the  worst  was  over  and  she  knew  for  certain  that 
she  was  Richard's  wife.  Sis  wife  I  It  made  her  faint 
and  sick  just  to  say  those  two  words.  What  then  would 
the  reality  be  ?  She  loved  him  dearly  as  a  guardian,  a 
brother,  and  she  might  in  time  love  him  as  her  husband. 
Such  things  had  been.  They  could  be  again.  Aye,  more, 
they  should  be,  and  determining  henceforth  to  keep  her 
own  counsel,  and  suffer  Victor  to  believe  it  was  Grace  in- 
stead of  herself,  she  ran  into  the  garden,  where  she  knew 
Richard  was  walking,  and  stealing  to  his  side,  caught  hia 
arm  ere  he  was  aware  of  her  presence. 

"  Darling,  is  it  you  ?  "  he  asked,  and  his  dark  face  be- 
came positively  beautiful  with  the  radiant  love-light 
shining  out  all  over'it. 

Every  day  the  hope  grew  stronger  that  the  cherished 
object  of  his  life  might  be  realized.  Edith  did  not  avoid 
him  as  he  feared  she  would.  On  the  contrary  she  rather 
sought  his  society  than  otherwise,  never,  however,  speak- 
ing of  the  decision.  It  was  a  part  of  the  agreement  that 
they  should  not  talk  of  it  until  the  four  Wueks  were 
gone,  the  weeks  which  to  Richard  dragged  so  slowly; 
while  to  Edith  they  flew  on  rapid  wing;  and  with  every 
rising  sun,  she  felt  an  added  pang  as  she  thought  ho\f 


DEgTTNT.  239 

soon  the  twelfth  of  May  would  be  there.  It  wanted  but 
four  days  of  it  when  she  joined  him  in  the  garden,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  their  conversation  Richard  allud- 
ed to  it  by  asking  playfully,  "  what  day  of  the  month  it 
was  ?  " 

"  The  eighth ; "  and  Edith's  eyes  closed  tightly  over 
iho  tears  straggling  to  gain  egress,  then  with  a  mighty 
eflbrt  she  added,  laughingly, 

"  When  the  day  after  to-morrow  comes,  it  will  be  the 
tenth,  then  the  eleventh,  then  the  twelfth,  and  then,  you 
know,  I'm  coming  to  you  in  the  library.  Send  Victor 
off  for  that  evening,  can't  you  ?  He's  sure  to  come  in 
when  I  don't  want  him,  if  he's  here,"  and  this  she  said 
because  she  feared  it  would  be  harder  to  say  yes  if  Vic- 
tor's reproachful  eyes  should  once  look  upon  her,  as  they 
were  sure  to  do,  if  he  suspected  her  designs. 

Richard  could  not  understand  why  Victor  must  be  sent 
away,  but  anything  Edith  asked  was  right,  and  he  replied 
that  Victor  should  not  trouble  them. 

"  There,  he's  coming  now ! "  and  Edith  dropped  the 
hand  she  held,  as  if  fearful  lest  the  Frenchman  should 
suspect. 

This  was  not  the  proper  feeling,  she  knew,  and  return- 
ing to  the  house,  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  crying 
bitterly  because  she  could  not  make  herself  feel  differ- 
ently ! 

The  twelfth  came  at  last,  not  a  balmy,  pleasant  day  as 
May  is  wont  to  bring,  but  a  rainy,  dreary  April  day,  when 
the  gray  clouds  chased  each  other  across  the  leaden  sky, 
now  showing  a  disposition  to  hang  out  patches  of  blue, 
and  again  growing  black  and  heavy  as  the  fitful  showers 
came  pattering  down.  Edith  was  sick.  The  strong  ten- 
sion of  nerves  she  had  endured  for  four  long  weeks  was 
giving  way.  She  could  not  keep  up  longer;  and  Richard 
breakfasted  and  dined  without  her,  while  with  an  aching 
head  she  listened  to  the  rain  beating  against  ner  wiu- 


240  DAEKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

dows,  and  watched  the  capricious  clouds  as  they  floated 
by.  Many  times  she  wished  it  all  a  dream  from  which 
she  should  awaken;  and  then,  when  she  reflected  that 
'twas  a  fearful  reality,  she  covered  her  head  with  the  bed- 
clothes and  prayed  that  she  might  die.  But  why  pray 
for  this?  She  need  not  be  Richard's  wife  unless  she 
abose  —  he  had  told  her  so  repeatedly,  and  now  she  too 
fcald  "  I  will  not !  "  Strange  she  had  not  thus  decided  be- 
fore, and  stranger  still  that  she  should  be  so  happy  now 
she  had  decided ! 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Grace  Atherton 
asked  to  be  admitted. 

".Richard  told  me  you  were  sick,"  she  said,  as  she  sat 
down  by  Edith's  side ;  "  and  you  do  look  ghostly  white. 
What  is  the  matter,  pray  ?  " 

"  One  of  my  nervous  headaches ; "  and  Edith  turned 
from  the  light  so  that  her  face  should  tell  no  tales  of  the 
conflict  within. 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  Arthur  last  night,"  Grace  con 
tinued,  "  and  thinking  you  might  like  to  hear  from  Nina, 
I  came  round  in  the  rain  to  tell  you  of  her.  Her  health 
is  somewhat  improved,  and  she  is  now  under  the  care  of 
a  West  India  physician,  who  holds  out  strong  hopes  that 
her  mental  derangement  may  in  time  be  cured. 

Edith  was  doubly  glad  now  that  she  had  turned  her 
face  away,  for  by  so  doing  she  hid  the  tears  which  drop- 
ped so  fast  upon  her  pillow. 

"Did  Arthur  mention  me?"  she  asked,  and  Grace 
knew  then  that  she  was  crying. 

Still  it  was  better  not  to  withhold  the  truth,  and  bend 
ing  over  her  she  answered, 

"  No,  Edith,  he  did  not.  I  believe  he  is  really  striving 
to  do  right." 

"  And  he  will  live  with  Nina  if  she  gets  well  ? "  came 
next  from  the  depths  of  the  pillows  where  Edith  lay  half 
smothered. 


DESTINY.  241 

"Perhaps  so.  Would  you  not  like  to  have  him?" 
Grace  asked. 

"  Y  e-e-e-  s.  I  sup-pose  so.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I 
like.  I  don't  know  anything  except  that  I  wish  I  was 
dead,"  and  the  silent  weeping  became  a  passionate  sob- 
bing as  Edith  shrank  further  from  Grace,  plunging  deeper 
and  deeper  among  her  pillows  until  she  was  nearly  hid- 
den from  view. 

Grace  could  not  comfort  her ;  there  was  no  comfort  as 
sh  3  saw,  and  as  Edith  refused  to  answer  any  of  her  ques- 
tions upon  indifferent  topics,  she  ere  long  took  her  leave, 
and  Edith  was  left  alone.  She  had  reversed  her  decision 
while  Grace  was  sitting  there,  and  the  news  from  Florida 
was  the  immediate  cause.  She  should  marry  Richard 
now,  and  her  whole  body  shook  with  the  violence  of  her 
emotions;  but  as  the  fiercest  storm  will  in  time  expend  its 
fury,  so  she  grew  still  at  last,  though  it  was  rather  the 
stillness  of  despair  than  any  healthful,  quieting  influence 
stealing  over  her.  She  hated  herself  because  she  could 
not  feel  an  overwhelming  joy  at  the  prospect  of  Nina's 
recovery;  hated  Arthur  because  he  had  forgotten  her; 
hated  Grace  for  telling  her  so  ;  hated  Victor  for  saying  he 
would  rather  see  her  dead  than  Richard's  wife;  hated 
Mrs.  Matson  for  coming  in  to  ask  her  how  she  was ; 
hated  her  for  staying  there  when  she  would  rather  be 
alone,  and  made  faces  at  her  from  beneath  the  sheet; 
hated  everybody  but  Richard,  and  in  tune  she  should 
hate  lam  —  at  least,  she  hoped  she  should,  for  on  the  whole 
she  was  more  comfortable  when  hating  people  than  sho 
had  ever  been  when  loving  them.  It  had  such  a  harden- 
ed effect  upon  her,  this  hatred  of  all  mankind,  such  a 
don't  care  influence,  that  she  rather  enjoyed  it  than  other- 
wise. 

And  this  was  the  girl  who,  as  that  rainy,  dismal  day 
drew  to  its  close  and  the  sun  went  down  in  tears,  dressed 
herself  with  a  firm,  unflinching  hand,  arranging  her  hair 
11 


242  DAEK1TE88  AND   DAYLIGHT 

with  more  than  usual  care,  giving  it  occasionally  a  sharp 
pull,  as  a  kind  of  escape  valve  to  her  feelings,  and  utter- 
ing an  impatient  exclamation  whenever  a  pin  proved 
obstinate  and  did  not  at  once  slip  into  its  place.  She  wag 
glad  Richard  was  blind  and  could  not  see  her  swollen 
eyes,  which,  in  spite  of  repeated  bathings  in  ice-water  and 
cologne  would  look  red  and  heavy.  Her  voice,  however, 
would  betray  her,  and  so  she  toned  it  down  by  warbling 
snatches  of  a  love  song  learned  ere  she  knew  the  meaning 
of  love,  save  as  it  was  connected  with  Richard.  It  was  not 
Edith  Hastings  who  left  that  pleasant  chamber,  moving 
with  an  unfaltering  step  down  the  winding  stairs  and 
across  the  marble  hall,  but  a  half-crazed,  defiant  woman 
going  on  to  meet  her  destiny,  and  biting  her  lip  with 
vexation  when  she  heard  that  Richard  had  company  — 
college  friends,  who  being  in  Shannondale  on  business  had 
come  up  to  see  him. 

This  she  learned  from  Victor,  whom  she  met  in  the 
ball,  and  who  added,  that  he  never  saw  his  master  appear 
quite  so  dissatisfied  as  when  told  they  were  in  the  library, 
and  would  probably  pass  the  night.  Edith  readily  guessed 
the  cause  of  his  disquiet,  and  impatiently  stamped  her 
little  foot  upon  the  marble  floor,  for  she  knew  their  pres- 
ence would  necessarily  defer  the  evil  hour,  and  she  could 
not  live  much  longer  in  her  present  state  of  excitement. 

u  I  was  just  coming  to  your  room,"  said  Victor,  "  to 
see  if  you  were  able  to  appear  in  the  parlor.  Three  men 
who  have  not  met  in  years  are  stupid  company  for  each 
other ;  and  then  Mr.  Harrington  wants  to  show  you  ofij 
I  dare  say.  Pity  the  widow  wasn't  here." 

Victor  spoke  sarcastically,  but  Edith  merely  replied, 
u  Tell  your  master  I  will  come  in  a  few  minutes." 
Then,  with  a  half  feeling  of  relief,  she  ran  back  to  hei 
room,  bathing  her  eyes  afresh,  and  succeeding  in  remov- 
ing the  redness  to  such  an  extent,  that  by  lamplight  no 
era*  would  snspect  she  had  been  crying.    Her  headacho 


DE8T1JSY.  243 

was  gone,  and  with  spirits  somewhat  elated,  she  started 
again  for  the  parlor  where  she  succeeded  in  entertaining 
Richard's  guests  entirely  to  his  satisfaction. 

It  was  growing  late,  and  the  clock  was  striking  eleven 
when  at  last  Richard  summoned  Victor,  bidding  him  show 
the  gentlemen  to  their  rooms.     As  they  were  leaving  the 
parlor  Edith  came  to  Richard's  side,  and  in  a  whisper  so 
low  that  no  one  heard  her,  save  himself,  said  to  him, 
"  Tell  Victor  he  needn't  come  back." 
He  understood  her  meaning,  and  said  to  his  valet, 
"  I  shall  not  need  your  services  to-uight.    You  may  re- 
tire as  soon  as  you  choose." 

Something  in  his  manner  awakened  Victor's  suspicions, 
and  his  keen  eyes  flashed  upon  Edith,  who,  with  a  haughty 
toss  of  the  head,  turned  away  to  avoid  meeting  it  again. 

The  door  was  closed  at  last ;  Victor  was  gone ;  their 
guests  were  gone,  and  she  was  alone  with  Richard,  who 
seemed  waiting  for  her  to  speak ;  but  Edith  could  not. 
The  breath  she  fancied  would  come  so  freely  with  Victor's 
presence  removed,  would  scarcely  come  at  all,  and  she 
felt  the  tears  gathering  like  a  flood  every  time  she  looked 
at  the  sightless  man  before  her,  and  thought  of  what  was 
to  come.  By  a  thousand  little  devices  she  strove  to  put 
it  off,  and  remembering  that  the  piano  was  open,  she 
walked  with  a  faltering  step  across  the  parlor,  closed  the 
instrument,  smoothed  the  heavy  cover,  arranged  the  sheets 
of  music,  whirled  the  music  stool  as  high  as  she  could 
turned  it  back  as  low  as  she  could,  sat  down  upon  it, 
crushed  with  her  fingers  two  great  tears,  which,  with  all 
her  winking  she  could  not  keep  in  subjection,  counted  the 
flowers  on  the  paper  border  and  wondered  how  long  she 
should  probably  live.  Then,  with  a  mighty  effort  she 
arose,  and  with  a  step  which  this  time  did  not  falter,  went 
and  stood  before  Richard,  who  was  beginning  to  look 
troubled  at  her  protracted  silence.  He  knew  she  was  near 
him  now,  he  could  hear  her  low  breathing,  and  he  waited 
anxiously  for  her  to  speak. 


244  DARKNESS   ASTD   DAYLIGHT. 

Edith's  face  was  a  study  then.  Almost  every  possiblfl 
emotion  was  written  upon  it.  Fear,  anguish,  disappoint- 
ed hopes,  cruel  longings  for  the  past,  terrible  shrinkinga 
from  the  present,  and  still  more  terrible  dread  of  the  fu- 
ture. Then  these  passed  away,  and  were  succeeded  by 
pity,  sympathy,  gratitude,  and  a  strong  desire  to  do  riwht. 
The  latter  feelings  conquered,  and  sitting  down  by  Rich 
ard,  she  took  his  warm  hand  between  her  two  cold  ones 
and  said  to  him, 

"'Tis  the  twelfth  of  May  to-night,  did  you  know  it? " 

Did  he  know  it  ?  He  had  thought  of  nothing  else  the 
livelong  day,  and  when,  early  in  the  morning,  he  heard 
that  she  was  sick,  a  sad  foreboding  had  swept  over  him, 
lest  what  he  coveted  so  much  should  yet  be  withheld. 
But  she  was  there  beside  him.  She  had  sought  the  op- 
portunity and  asked  if  he  knew  it  was  the  twelfth,  and, 
drawing  her  closer  to  him,  he  answered  back  :  "Yes,  dar- 
ling ;  'tis  the  day  on  which  you  were  to  bring  me  your  de- 
cision. You  have  kept  your  word,  birdie.  You  have 
brought  it  to  me  whether  good  or  bad.  Now  tell  me,  is 
it  the  old  blind  man's  wife,  the  future  mistress  of  Colling- 
wood,  that  I  encircle  with  my  arm  ?  " 

He  bent  down  to  listen  for  the  reply,  feeling  her  breath 
stir  his  hair,  and  hearing  each  heart-beat  as  it  counted  off 
the  seconds.  Then  like  a  strain  of  music,  sweet  and  rich, 
but  oh,  so  touchingly  sad,  the  words  came  floating  in  a 
whisper  to  his  ear,  "  Yes,  Richard,  your  future  wife  ;  but 
please,  don't  call  yourself  the  old  blind  man.  It  makes 
you  seem  a  hundred  times  my  father.  You  are  not  old, 
Richard  —  no  older  than  I  feel ! "  and  the  newly  betrothed 
laid  her  head  on  Richard's  shoulder,  sobbing  passionately. 

Did  all  girls  behave  like  this?  Richard  wished  he 
knew.  Did  sweet  Lucy  Colling\voo<l,  when  she  gave  her 
young  spring  life  to  his  father's  broxvn  October?  Lucy 
had  loved  her  husband,  he  knew,  and  there  was  quite  ag 
much  difference  between  them  as  between  himself  and! 


DESTINY.  245 

Edith.  Possibly  'twas  a  maidenly  weakness  to  cry,  as 
Edith  was  doing.  He  would  think  so  at  all  events.  It 
were  death  to  think  otherwise,  and  caressing  her  with  un- 
wonted tenderness,  he  kissed  her  tears  away,  tellirg  her 
how  happy  she  had  made  him  by  promising  to  be  his  — 
how  the  darkness,  the  dreariness  all  was  gone,  and  the 
world  was  so  bright  and  fair.  Then,  as  she  continued 
weeping  and  he  remembered  what  had  heretofore  passed 
between  them,  he  said  to  her  earnestly :  "  EditL,  there  is 
one  thing  I  would  know.  Is  it  a  divided  love  you  bring 
me,  or  is  it  no  love  at  all.  I  have  a  right  to  ask  you  this, 
my  darling.  Is  it  gratitude  alone  which  prompted  your 
decision  ?  If  it  is,  Edith,  I  would  die  rather  than  accept 
it.  Don't  deceive  me,  darling,  I  cannot  see  your  face  — 
cannot  read  what's  written  there.  Alas !  alas  !  that  I  am 
blind  to-night;  but  I'll  trust  you,  birdie;  I'll  bolieve 
what  you  may  tell  me.  Has  an  affection,  different  from 
a  sister's,  been  born  within  the  last  four  weeks  ?  Speak  ! 
do  you  love  me  more  than  you  did  ?  Look  into  my  eyes, 
dearest ;  you  will  not  deal  falsely  with  me  then." 

Like  an  erring,  but  penitent  child,  Edith  crept  into  his 
lap,  but  did  not  look  into  the  sightless  eyes.  She  dared 
not,  lest  the  gaze  should  wring  from  her  quivering  lips  the 
wild  words  trembling  there,  M  Forgive  me,  Richard,  but  I 
loved  Arthur  first."  So  she  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom, 
and  said  to  him, 

"  I  do  not  love  you,  Richard,  as  you  do  me.  It  came 
tc  o  sudden,  and  I  had  not  thought  about  it.  But  I  love 
you  dearly,  very  dearly,  and  I  want  so  much  to  be  your 
wife.  I  shall  rest  so  quietly  when  I  have  you  to  lean 
upon,  you  to  care  for.  I  am  young  for  you,  I  know,  but 
many  such  matches  have  proved  happy,  and  ours  assured- 
ly will.  You  are  so  good,  so  noble,  so  unselfish,  that  I 
shall  be  happy  with  you.  I  shall  be  a  naughty,  wayward 
wife,  I  fear,  but  you  can  control  me,  and  you  must.  We'll 
go  to  Europe  sometime,  Richard,  and  visit  Bingen  on  the 


246  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Rhine,  where  the  little  baby  girl  fell  in  the  river,  and  tin 
brave  boy  Richard  jumped  after  her.  Don't  you  wish 
you'd  let  me  die  ?  There  would  then  have  been  no  bad 
black-haired  Edith  lying  in  your  lap,  and  torturing  you 
with  fears  that  she  does  not  love  you  as  she  ought." 

Edith's  was  an  April  temperament,  and  already  the  sua 
was  shining  through  the  cloud ;  the  load  at  her  heart  was 
not  so  heavy,  nor  the  future  half  so  dark.  Her  decision 
was  made,  her  destiny  accepted,  and  henceforth  she 
would  abide  by  it  nor  venture  to  look  back. 

"Are  you  satisfied  to  take  me  on  my  terms?"  she 
asked,  as  Richard  did  not  immediately  answer. ' 

He  would  rather  she  had  loved  him  more,  but  it  was 
sudden,  he  knew,  and  she  was  young.  He  was  terribly 
afraid,  it  is  true,  that  gratitude  alone  had  influenced  her 
actions,  but  the  germ  of  love  was  there,  he  believed ;  and 
by  and  by  it  would  bear  the  rich,  ripe  fruit.  He  could 
wait  for  that ;  and  he  loved  her  so  much,  wanted  her  so 
much,  needed  her  so  much,  that  he  would  take  her  on 
any  terms. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  resting  his  chin  upon  her  bowed 
head,  "  I  am  satisfied,  and  never  since  my  remembrance, 
has  there  come  to  Richard  Harrington  a  moment  so 
fraught  with  bliss  as  this  in  which  I  hold  you  in  my  arms 
and  know  I  hold  my  wife,  my  darling  wife,  sweetest  name 
ever  breathed  by  human  tongue  —  and  Edith,  if  you 
must  sicken  of  me,  do  it  now  —  to-night.  Don't  put  it 
oflj  for  every  fleeting  moment  binds  me  to  you  with  an 
added  tie,  which  makes  it  harder  to  lose  you." 

M  Richard,"  and,  lifting  up  her  head,  Edith  looked  into 
the  eyes  she  could  not  meet  before,  "  I  swear  to  you,  sol 
ecmiy,  that  never,  by  word  or  deed,  will  I  seek  to  be  re- 
leased from  our  engagement,  and  if  I  am  released,  it  will 
be  because  you  give  me  up  of  your  own  free  will.  You 
will  be  the  one  to  break  it,  not  I." 

"  Then  it  will  not  be  broken,"  came  in  a  quick  response 


DESTEST.  24? 

from  Richard,  as  he  held  closer  to  him  one  whom  he  now 
felt  to  be  his  forever. 

The  lamps  upon  the  table,  and  the  candles  on  the  man 
tei  flashed  and  smoked,  and  almost  died  away  —  the  fire 
on  the  marble  hearth  gave  one  or  two  expiring  gasps  and 
then  went  out  —  the  hands  of  the  clock  moved  onward, 
pointing  to  long  after  midnight,  and  still  Richard,  loth  to 
let  his  treasure  go,  kept  her  with  him,  talking  to  her  of 
his  great  happiness,  and  asking  if  early  June  would  be 
too  soon  for  her  to  be  his  bride. 

"  Yes,  yes,  much  too  soon,"  cried  Edith.  "  Give  me  the 
whole  summer  in  which  to  be  free.  I've  never  been  any 
where  you  know.  I  want  to  see  the  world.  Let's  go  to 
Saratoga,  and  to  all  those  places  I've  heard  so  much  about. 
Then,  in  the  autumn,  we'll  have  a  famous  wedding  at  Col- 
lingwood,  and  I  will  settle  down  into  the  most  demure, 
obedient  of  wives." 

Were  it  not  that  the  same  roof  sheltered  them  both, 
Richard  would  have  acceded  to  this  delay,  but  when  he 
reflected  that  he  should  not  be  parted  from  Edith  any 
more  than  if  they  were  really  married,  he  consented,  stip- 
ulating that  the  wedding  should  take  place  on  the  anni- 
versary of  the  day  when  she  first  came  to  him  with  flow- 
ers, and  called  him  "  poor  blind  man." 

w  You  did  not  think  you'd  ever  be  the  poor  blind  man's 
wife,"  he  said,  asking  her,  playfully,  if  she  were  not  sorry 
even  now. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  Nor  was  she.  In  fact,  she  scarce- 
ly  felt  at  all.  Her  heart  was  palsied,  and  lay  in  her  bosom 
like  a  block  of  stone  —  heavy,  numb,  and  sluggish  in  its 
beat. 

Of  one  thing,  only,  was  she  conscious,  and  that  a  sense 
of  weariness  —  a  strong  desire  to  be  alone,  up  stairs, 
where  she  Avas  not  obliged  to  answer  questions,  or  listen 
to  loviiig  words,  of  which  she  was  so  unworthy.  She  was 
deceiving  Richard,  who,  when  his  quick  ear  caught  be* 


248  DAJBKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

smothered  yawn,  as  the  little  clock  struck  one,  bade  he* 
leave  him,  chiding  himself  for  keeping  her  so  long  from 
the  rest  he  knew  she  needed. 

"  For  me,  I  shall  never  know  fatigue  or  pain  again,"  he 
said,  as  he  led  her  to  the  door,  "but  my  singing-bird  i» 
different  —  she  must  sleep.  God  bless  you,  darling.  You 
have  made  the  blind  man  very  happy." 

He  kissed  her  forehead,  her  lips,  her  hands*  and  ihen 
released  her,  standing  in  the  door  and  listening  to  her 
footsteps  as  they  went  up  the  winding  stairs  and  out  into 
the  hall  beyond  —  the  dark,  gloomy  hall,  where  no  light 
was,  save  a  single  ray,  shining  through  the  keyhole  of 
Victor's  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

EDITH   ASTD    THE   WORLD. 

"  Victor  is  faithful,"  Edith  said,  as  she  saw  the  light, 
and  fancied  that  the  Frenchman  was  still  up,  waiting  to 
assist  his  master. 

But  not  for  Richard  did  Victor  keep  the  watch  that 
night.  He  would  know  how  long  that  interview  lasted 
below,  and  when  it  was  ended  he  would  know  its  result. 
What  Victor  designed  he  was  pretty  sure  to  accomplish, 
and  when,  by  the  voices  in  the  lower  hall,  he  knew  that 
Edith  was  coming,  he  stole  on  tip-toe  to  the  balustrade, 
nd,  leaning  over,  saw  the  parting  at  the  parlor  door,  feel- 
ing intuitively  that  Edith's  relations  to  Richard  had 
changed  since  he  last  looked  upon  her.  Never  was  serv- 
ant more  attached  to  his  master  than  was  Victor  Duprea 
to  his,  and  yet  he  was  strongly  unwilling  that  Edith's 
glorious  beauty  should  be  wasted  thus. 

"  If  she  loved  him,"  he  said  to  himself,  as,  gliding  back 


DESTDTY.  L49 

to  his  room,  he  cautiously  shut  the  door,  ere  Edith  reached 
the  first  landing.  "  If  she  loved  him,  I  would  not  care. 
More  unsuitable  matches  than  this  have  ended  happily 
—  but  she  don't.  Her  whole  life  is  bound  with  that  of 
another,  and  she  shrinks  from  Mr.  Harrington  as  she  was 
not  wont  to  do.  I  saw  it  in  her  face,  as  she  turned  away 
from  him.  There'll  be  another  grave  in  the  Collingwood 
grounds  —  another  name  on  the  tall  monument,  '  Edith, 
wife  of  Richard  Harrington,  aged  20.' " 

Victoi  wrote  the  words  upon  a  slip  of  paper,  reading 
them  over  until  tears  dimmed  his  vision,  for,  in  fancy,  the 
imaginative  Frenchman  assisted  at  Edith's  obsequies,  and 
even  hearP.  the  grinding  of  the  hearse  wheels,  once  fore- 
told by  y<ina.  Several  times  he  peered  out  into  the  silent 
hall,  seoing  the  lamplight  shining  from  the  ventilator  over 
Edith's  door,  and  knowing  by  that  token  that  she  had  not 
retired.  "What  was  she  doing  there  so  long  ?  Victor  fain 
would  know,  and  as  half-hour  after  half-hour  went  by, 
until  it  was  almost  four,  he  stepped  boldly  to  the  door  and 
knocked.  Long  association  with  Victor  had  led  Edith  to 
treat  him  more  as  an  equal  than  a  servant ;  consequently 
he  took  liberties  both  with  her  and  Richard,  which  no 
other  of  the  household  would  dare  to  do,  and  now,  as 
there  came  no  response,  he  cautiously  turned  the  knob 
and  walked  into  the  room  where,  in  her  crimson  dressing- 
gown,  her  hair  unbound  and  falling  over  her  shoulders, 
Edith  sat,  her  arms  crossed  upon  the  table,  and  her  face 
upon  her  arms.  She  was  not  sleeping,  for  as  the  door 
creaked  on  its  hinges,  she  looked  up,  half-pleased  to  meet 
only  the  good-humored  face  of  Victor  where  she  had 
feared  to  see  that  of  Richard. 

"  Miss  Edith,  this  is  madness  —  this  is  folly,"  and  Vic- 
tor sat  down  before  her.  "  I  was  a  fool  to  think  it  wai 
Mrs.  Atherton." 

"  Victor  Dupres,  what  do  you  mean  ?  What  do  you 
know?  Why  are  you  here?"  and  Edith's  eyes  flashed 
11* 


250  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

with  insulted  pride;  but  Victor  did  not  quail  before  them. 
Gazing  steadily  at  her,  he  replied,  "  You  are  engaged 
to  your  guardian,  and  you  do  not  love  him." 

"  Victor  Dupres,  I  do  I "  and  Edith  struck  her  hand  upon 
the  table  with  a  force  which  made  the  glass  lamp  rattle. 

"  Granted  you  do,"  returned  Victor,  "  but  how  do  you 
love  him  ?  As  a  brother,  as  a  friend,  as  a  father,  if  you 
will,  but  not  as  you  should  love  your  husband ;  not  a§ 
you  could  love  Arthur  St.  Claire,  were  he  not  bound  by 
other  ties." 

Across  the  table  the  blanched,  frightened  face  of  Edith 
looked,  and  the  eyes  which  never  before  had  been  so  black, 
scanned  Victor  keenly. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  Arthur  St.  Claire's  ties?"  she 
asked  at  last,  every  word  a  labored  breath. 

Victor  made  no  answer,  but  hurrying  from  the  room, 
soon  returned  with  the  crumpled,  soiled  sheet  of  fools- 
cap, which  he  placed  before  her,  asking  if  she  ever  saw  it 
before. 

Edith's  mind  had  been  sadly  confused  when  Nina  read 
to  her  the  scratching  aut,  and  she  had  forgotten  it  entirely, 
but  it  came  back  to  her  now,  and  catching  up  the  papers, 
she  recognized  Richard's  unmistakable  hand-writing. 
He  knew,  then,  of  her  love  for  Arthur  —  of  the  obstacle 
to  that  love  —  of  the  agony  it  cost  her  to  give  him  up. 
He  had  deceived  her-— had  won  her  under  false  pretenses, 
assuming  that  she  loved  no  one.  She  did  not  think  this  of 
Richai  d,  and  in  her  eyes,  usually  so  soft  and  mild,  there 
was  a  black,  hard,  terrible  expression,  as  she  whispered 
hoarsely,  "  How  came  this  in  your  possession  ?  "  « 

He  told  her  how  —  thus  exonerating  Richard  from 
blame,  and  the  hard,  angry  look  was  drowned  in  tears  as 
Edith  we.pt  aloud. 

"  Then  he  don't  know  it,"  she  said  at  length,  "Richard 
don't.  I  should  hate  him  if  he  did  and  still  wished  me 
to  be  his  wife." 


EDITH   AND    THE    WORLD.  251 

a  I  can  tell  him,"  was  Victor's  dry  response,  and  in  an 
instant  Edith  was  over  where  he  sat. 

"  You  cannot,  you  must  not,  you  shall  not.  It  will  kill 
him  if  I  desert  him.  He  told  me  so,  and  I  promised  that 
I  wouldn't  —  promised  solemnly.  I  would  not  harm  a 
hair  of  Richard's  head,  and  he  so  noble,  so  good,  so  help, 
less,  with  so  few  sources  of  enjoyment ;  but  oh,  Victor,  I 
did  love  Arthur  best  —  did  love  him  so  much,"  and  in  that 
wailing  cry  Edith's  true  sentiments  spoke  out.  u  I  did  love 
him  so  much  —  I  love  him  so  much  now,"  and  she  kept 
whispering  it  to  herself  while  Victor  sought  in  vain  for 
some  word  of  comfort,  but  could  find  none.  Once  he  said 
to  her,  "  Wait,  and  Nina  may  die,"  but  Edith  recoiled  from 
him  in  horror. 

"Never  hint  that  again," she  almost  screamed.  "It's 
murder,  foul  murder.  -  I  would  not  have  Nina  die  for  the 
whole  world — beautiful,  loving  Nina,  I  wouldn't  have 
Arthur,  if  she  did.  I  couldn't,  for  I  am  Richard's  wife. 
I  wish  I'd  told  him  early  June  instead  of  October.  Fll  tell 
him  to-morrow,  and  in  four  weeks  more  all  the  dreadful 
uncertainty  will  be  ended.  I  ought  to  love  him,  Victor, 
he's  done  so  much  for  me.  I  am  that  Swedish  child  he 
saved  from  the  river  Rhine,  periling  life  and  limb,  losing 
his  sight  for  me.  He  found  it  so  that  time  he  went  with 
you  to  New  York,"  and  Edith's  tears  ceased  as  she  repeated 
to  Victor  all  she  knew  of  her  early  history.  "  Shouldn't  I 
marry  him?"  she  asked,  when  the  story  was  ended. 
"Ought  I  not  to  be  his  eyes?  Help  me,  Victor.  Don't 
make  it  so  hard  for  me ;  I  shall  faint  by  the  way  if  you 
do." 

Victor  conceded  that  she  owed  much  to  Richard,  but 
nothing  could  make  him  think  it  right  for  her  to  marry 
him  with  her  present  feelings.  It  would  be  a  greater 
wrong  to  him  than  to  refuse  him,  but  Edith  did  not  think 
10. 

u  Hell  never  know  what  I  feel,"  she  said,  and  by  and  by 


<i52  IMBKJTESS    A1TD   DAYLIGHT. 

I  shall  be  belter, —  shall  love  him  as  he  deserves.    There 
are  few  Richards  in  the  world,  Victor." 

"  That  is  true,"  he  replied,  "  but  'tis  no  reason  why  you 
must  be  sacrificed.  Edith,  the  case  is  like  this :  I  wish, 
and  the  world  at  large,  if  it  could  speak,  would  wish  fo* 
Richard  to  marry  you,  but  would  not  wish  you  to  many 
Richard." 

"  But  I  shall,"  interrupted  Edith.    "  There  is  no  possilJe 
chance  of  my  not  doing  so,  and  Victor,  you  will  help  me.  — « 
You  won't  tell  him  of  Arthur.    You  know  how  his  unsel- 
fish heart  would  give  me  up  if  you  did,  and  break  while  do 
ing  it.    Promise,  Victor.", 

"Tfell  me  first  what  you  meant  by  early  June,  and  Oc- 
tober," he  said,  and  after  Edith  had  explained,  he  continued, 
M  Let  the  wedding  be  still  appointed  for  October,  and  un- 
less I  see  that  it  is  absolutely  killing  you,  I  will  not  en- 
lighten Mr.  Harrington." 

Ancl  this  was  all  the  promise  Edith  could  extort  from 
him. 

"  Unless  he  saw  it  was  absolutely  killing  her,  he  would 
not  enlighten  Richard." 

"  He  shall  see  that  it  will  not  kill  me,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  I  will  be  gay  whether  I  feel  it  or  not.  I  will  out-do 
myself,  and  if  my  broken  heart  should  break  again,  no  one 
shall  be  the  wiser." 

Thus  deciding,  she  turned  toward  the  window  where 
the  gray  dawn  was  stealing  in,  and  pointing  to  it,  said : 

"  Look,  the  day  is  breaking ;  the  longest  night  will  have 
an  end,  so  will  this  miserable  pain  at  my  heart.  Daylight 
will  surely  come  when  I  shall  be  happy  with  Ricijnrrl. 
Don't  tell  him,  Victor,  don't ;  and  now  leave  me,  for  ray 
head  is  bursting  with  weariness." 

He  knew  it  was,  by  the  expression  of  her  face,  \\  hich, 
in  the  dim  lamp-light,  looked  ghastly  and  worn,  and  he 
was  about  to  leave  her,  when  she  called  him  back,  and 
asked  how  long  he  had  lived  with  Mr.  Harrington. 


EDITH   AND    THE    WOULD.  253 

"Thirteen  years,"  he  replied.  "He  picked  me  up  in 
Germany,  just  before  he  came  home  to  America,  lie 
was  not  blind  then." 

"  Then  you  never  saw  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"Nor  Marie?" 

u  Never  to  my  knowledge." 

"  You  were  in  Geneva  with  Richard,  you  say.  Where 
•were  you,  when  —  when  —  " 

Edith  could  not  finish,  but  Victor  understood  what  she 
would  ask,  and  answered  her, 

"I  must  have  been  in  Paris.  I  went  home  for  a  few 
months,  ten  years  ago  last  fall,  and  did  not  return  until 
just  before  we  came  to  Collingwood.  The  housekeeper 
told  me  there  had  been  a  wedding  at  Lake  Yiew,  our  Ge- 
neva home,  but  I  did  not  ask  the  particulars.  There's  a 
moral  there,  Edith ;  a  warning  to  all  foolish  college  boys, 
and  girls,  who  don't  half  know  their  minds. 

Edith  was  too  intent  upon  her  own  matters  to  care  for 
morals,  and  without  replying  directly,  she  said, 

"  Richard  will  tell  you  to-morrow,  or  to-day,  rather,  of 
the  engagement,  and  you'll  be  guarded,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  let  him  know  I  disapprove,"  returned  Victor, 
"  but  I  shan't  say  anything  that  sounds  like  Arthur 
St.  Claire,  not  yet,  at  all  events." 

"  And,  Victor,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  you'll  make 
some  errand  to  Brier  Hill,  and  incidentally  mention  it  to 
Mrs.  Atherton.  Richard  won't  tell  her,  I  know,  and  I 
can't  —  I  can't.  Oh,  I  wish  it  were " 

"  The  widow,  instead  of  you,"  interrupted  Victor,  as  he 
*t  3od  with  the  door  knob  in  his  hand.  "  That's  what 
you  mean,  and  I  must  say  it  shows  a  very  proper  frame 
of  mind  in  a  bride-elect." 

Edith  made  a  gesture  for  him  to  leave  her,  and  with  a 
low  bow  he  withdrew,  while  Edith,  alternately  shivering 
with  cold  and  flushed  with  fever,  crept  into  bed,  and  fell 


254  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

away  to  sleep,  forgetting,  for  the  time,  that  there  were  in 
the  world  such  things  as  broken  hearts,  unwilling  brides 
and  blind  husbands  old  enough  to  be  her  father. 


Th  e  breakfast  dishes  were  cleared  away,  all  but  the  ex« 
quisite  little  service  brought  for  Edith's  use  when  she 
was  sick,  and  which  now  stood  upon  the  side-board  wait- 
ing until  her  long  morning  slumber  should  end.  Once 
Mrs.  Matson  had  been  to  her  bedside,  hearing  from  her 
that  her  head  was  aching  badly,  and  that  she  would 
sleep  longer.  This  message  was  carried  down  to  Rich- 
ard, who  entertained  his  guests  as  best  he  could,  but  did 
not  urge  them  to  make  a  longer  stay. 

They  were  gone  now,  and  Richard  was  alone.  It  was 
a  favorable  opportunity  for  telling  Victor  of  his  engage- 
in  cut,  and  summoning  the  latter  to  his  presence,  he  bade 
him  sit  down,  himself  hesitating,  stammering,  and  blush- 
ing like  a  woman,  as  he  tried  to  speak  of  Edith.  Victor 
might  have  helped  him,  but  he  would  not,  and  he  sat, 
rather  enjoying  his  master's  confusion,  until  the  latter 
said,  abruptly, 

"  Victor,  how  would  you  like  to  have  a  mistress  here  — 
a  bona  fide  one,  I  mean,  such  as  my  wife  would  be  ?  " 

"That  depends  something  upon  who  it  was,"  Victor 
exclaimed,  as  if  this  were  the  first  intimation  he  had  re- 
ceived of  it. 

"  What  would  you  say  to  Edith  ?  "  Richard  continued, 
and  Victor  replied  with  well-feigned  surprise,  "Miss  Hast- 
ings !  You  would  not  ask  that  little  girl  to  be  your  wife  I 
Why  you  are  twenty-five  years  her  senior." 

"  No,  no,  Victor,  only  twenty-one,"  and  Richard's  voice 
trembled,  for  like  Edith,  he  wished  to  be  reassured  and 
upheld  even  by  his  inferiors. 

He  knew  Victor  disapproved,  that  he  considered  it  a 
great  sacrifice  on  Edith's  part,  but  for  this  he  had  no  in 


EDITH    AND    THE     ^OBLD.  265 

tention  of  giving  her  up.  On  the  contrary  it  made  him 
a  very  little  vexed  that  his  valet  should  presume  to  ques- 
tion his  acts,  and  he  said  with  more  asperity  of  manner 
than  was  usual  for  him, 

"  You  think  it  unsuitable,  I  perceive,  and  perhaps  it  is, 
bat  if  we  are  satisfied,  it  is  no  one's  else  business,  I  think.' 

u  Certainly  not,"  returned  Victor,  a  meaning  smile 
curling  his  lip,  "if  both  are  satisfied,  I  ought  to  be. 
When  is  the  wedding?" 

He  asked  this  last  with  an  appearance  of  interest,  and 
Richard,  ever  ready  to  forgive  and  forget,  told  him  all 
about  it,  who  Edith  was,  and  sundry  other  matters,  to 
which  Victor  listened  as  attentively  as  if  he  had  not  heard 
the  whole  before.  Like  Edith,  Richard  was  in  the  habit 
of  talking  to  Victor  more  as  if  he  were  an  equal  than  a 
servant,  and  in  speaking  of  his  engagement,  he  said, 

"  I  had  many  misgivings  as  to  the  propriety  of  asking 
Edith  to  be  my  wife  —  she  is  so  young,  so  different  from 
me,  but  my  excuse  is  that  I  cannot  live  without  her.  She 
has  never  loved  another,  and  thus  the  chance  is  tenfold 
greater  that  she  will  yet  be  to  me  all  that  a  younger,  less 
dependent  husband  could  desire." 

Victor  bit  his  lip,  half  resolved  one  moment  to  unde- 
ceive poor  Richard,  whom  he  pitied  for  his  blind  infatua- 
tion, but  remembering  his  promise,  he  held  his  peace,  un- 
til his  master  signified  that  the  conference  was  ended, 
when  he  hastened  to  the  barn,  where  he  could  give  vent 
to  his  feelings  in  French,  his  adopted  language  being  far 
too  prosy  to  suit  his  excited  mood.  Suddenly  Grace  Ath- 
erton  came  into  his  mind,  and  Edith's  request  that  be 
should  tell  her. 

"Yes,  I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  starting  at  once  for  Brier  Ilili 
Twill  be  a  relief  to  let  another  know  it,  and  then  I 
want  to  see  her  squirm,  when  she  hears  all  hope  for  her- 
self is  gone." 

For  once,  however,  Victor  was  mistaken.     Gradually 


256  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

the  Lope  that  she  could  ever  be  aught  to  Richard  was  dy« 
mg  out  of  Grace's  heart,  and  though,  for  an  instant,  she 
turned  very  white  when,  as  if  by  accident,  he  told  the 
news,  it  was  more  from  surprise  at  Edith's  conduct  tba^n 
from  any  new  feeling  that  she  had  lost  him.  She  was  in 
the  garden  bending  over  a  bed  of  daffodils,  so  he  did  not 
see  her  face,  but  he  knew  from  her  voice  how  astonished 
she  was,  and  rather  wondered  that  she  could  question  him 
so -calmly  as  she  did,  asking  if  Edith  were  very  happy, 
when  the  wedding  was  to  be,  and  even  wondering  at  Rich- 
ard's willingness  to  wait  so  long. 

"  Women  are  queer  any  way,"  was  Victor's  mental 
comment,  as,  balked  of  his  intention  to  see  Grace  Ather- 
ton  squirm,  he  bade  her  good  morning,  and  bowed  him- 
self from  the  garden,  having  first  received  her  message 
that  she  would  come  up  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and 
congratulate  the  newly  betrothed. 

Once  alone,  Grace's  calmness  all  gave  way ;  and  though 
the  intelligence  did  not  affect  her  as  it  once  would  have 
done,  the  fibres  of  her  heart  quivered  with  pain,  and  a 
sense  of  dreariness  stole  over  her,  as,  sitting  down  on  the 
thick,  trailing  boughs  of  an  evergreen,  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  wept  as  women  always  weep 
over  a  blighted  hope.  It  was  all  in  vain  that  her  pet  kit- 
ten came  gamboling  to  her  feet,  rubbing  against  her  dress, 
climbing  upon  her  shoulder,  and  playfully  touching,  with 
her  velvet  paw,  the  chestnut  curls  which  fell  from  beneath 
her  bonnet.  All  in  vain  that  the  Newfoundland  dog  came 
to  her  side,  licking  her  hands  and  gazing  upon  her  with  a 
wondering,  human  look  of  intelligence.  Grace  had  no 
thought  for  Rover  or  for  Kitty,  and  she  wept  on,  some- 
times for  Arthur,  sometimes  for  Edith,  but  oftener  for  the 
young  girl  who  years  ago  refused  the  love  offered  her  by 
Richard  Harrington ;  and  then  she  wondered  if  it  were 
possible  that  Edith  had  so  soon  ceased  to  care  for  Arthur. 

**  I  can  tell  from  her  manner,"  she  thought ;  and  with 


EDITH    AND    THE    WOBLD.  257 

her  mind  thus  brought  to  the  call  she  weald  make  at 
Collingwood,  she  dried  her  eyes,  and  speaking  playfully 
to  her  dumb  pets,  returned  to  the  house  a  sad,  subdued 
•woman,  whose  part  in  the  drama  of  Richard  Harrington 
was  effectually  played  out. 

That  afternoon,  about  three  o'clock,  a  carriage  beaiing 
Grace  Atherton,  wound  slowly  up  the  hill  to  Collingwood^ 
and  when  it  reached  the  door  a  radiant,  beautiful  woman 
stepped  out,  her  face  all  wreathed  in  smiles  and  her  voice 
full  of  sweetness  as  she  greeted  Richard,  who  came  forth 
to  meet  her. 

"  A  pretty  march  you've  stolen  upon  me,"  she  began, 
in  a  light,  bantering  tone  —  "you  and  Edith  —  never 
asked  my  consent,  or  said  so  much  as  'by  your  leave,'  but 
no  matter,  I  congratulate  you  all  the  same.  I  fancied  it 
•vould  end  in  this.  "  Where  is  she  —  the  bride-elfec^t  ?  " 

Richard  was  stunned  with  such  a  volley  of  wordsx^rom 
one  whom  he  supposed  ignorant  of  the  matter,  and  ob- 
serving his  evident  surprise  Grace  continued,  "  You  won- 
der how  I  know.  Victor  told  me  this  morning;  he 
was  too  much  delighted  to  keep  it  to  himself.  But  say, 
where  is  Edith?" 

"  Here  I  am,"  and  advancing  from  the  parlor,  where  she 
had  overheard  the  whole,  Edith  laughed  a  gay,  musica] 
laugh,  as  hollow  and  meaningless  as  Mrs.  Atherton's 
forced  levity. 

Had  she  followed  the  bent  of  her  inclinations  she  would 
not  have  left  her  pillow  that  day,  but  remembering  Vic- 
tor's words,  "  "Unless  I  see  it's  killing  you,"  she  felt  the 
necessity  of  exerting  herself,  of  wearing  the  semblance  of 
happiness  at  least,  and  about  noon  she  had  arisen  and 
dressed  herself  with  the  utmost  care,  twining  geranium 
leaves  5n  her  hair  just  as  she  used  to  do  when  going  to  see 
Arthur,  and  letting  them  droop  from  among  her  braids  in 
the  way  he  had  told  her  was  so  becoming.  Then,  with 
flushed  cheeks  and  bright,  restless  eyes,  she  went  down  to 


258  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Richard,  receiving  his  caresses  and  partially  returning  them 
when  she  fancied  Victor  was  where  he  could  see  her 

"  Women  are  queer,"  he  said  again  to  himself  as  he  saw 
Edith  on  Richard's  knee,  with  her  arm  around  his  neck. 
"  Their  love  is  like  a  footprint  on  the  seashore ;  the  first 
tig  wave  washes  it  away,  and  they  are  ready  to  make 
another.  I  reckon  I  shan't  bother  myself  about  her  any 
more.  If  she  loved  Arthur  as  I  thought  she  did,  sho 
couldn't  hug  another  one  so  soon.  It  isn't  nature  —  man 
nature,  any  way;  but  Edith's  like  a  reed  that  bends. 
That  character  of  Cooper's  suits  her  exactly.  I'll  call  her 
so  to  myself  hereafter  —  Reed  that  bends,"  and  Victor  hur- 
ried off,  delighted  with  his  new  name. 

But  if  Victor  was  in  a  measure  deceived  by  Edith's 
demeanor,  Grace  Atherton  was  not.  Women  distrust 
women  sooner  than  men  ;  can  read  each  .other  better,  de- 
tect the  hidden  motive  sooner,  and  ere  the  two  had  been 
five  minutes  together,  Grace  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
troubled,  angry  current  over  which  the  upper  waters  rip- 
pled so  smoothly  that  none  sare  an  acute  observer  would 
have  suspected  the  fierce  whirlpool  which  lay  just  below 
the  surface.  Because,  he  thought,  they  would  like  it  bet 
ter,  Richard  left  the  two  ladies  alone  at  last^  and  then 
turning  suddenly  upon  Edith,  Grace  said, 

"  Tell  me,  Edith,  is  your  heart  in  this,  or  have  you  done 
it  in  a  fit  of  desperation  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  a  long  time  to  think  of  it,"  Edith  answered 
proudly.  "  It  is  no  sudden  act.  Richard  is  too  noble  to 
accept  it  if  it  were.  I  have  always  loved  him,  —  not  ex- 
actly as  I  loved  Arthur,  it  is  true." 

Here  the  whirlpool  underneath  threatened  to  fcetray 
itself,  but  with  a  mighty  effort  Edith  kept  it  down,  and 
the  current  was  unruffled  as  she  continued, 

"  Arthur  is  nearer  my  age  —  nearer  my  beau  ideal,  but 
i  can't  have  him,  and  I'm  not  going  to  play  the  part  of  a 
k)ve  Jom  damsel  for  a  married  man.  Tell  him  so  when 


EDITH   AND    THE    "WOELD.  259 

you  write.  Tell  him  I'm  engaged  to  Richard  just  as  he 
said  I  would  be.  Tell  him  I'm  happy,  too,  for  I  know  I'm 
doing  right.  It  is  not  wicked  to  love  Richard  and  it  was 
wicked  to  love  him." 

It  cost  Edith  more  to  say  this  than  she  supposed,  and  when 
she  finished,  the  perspiration  stood  in  drops  beneath  hei 
hair  and  about  her  mouth. 

"  5Tou  are  deceiving  yourself,"  said  Grace,  who,  without 
any  selfish  motive  now,  really  pitied  the  hard,  white-faced 
girl,  so  unlike  the  Edith  of  other  days.  "  You  are  taking 
Richard  from  gratitude,  nothing  else.  Victor  told  me  of 
your  .parentage,  but  because  he  saved  your  life,  you  need 
not  render  yours  as  a  return.  Your  heart  is  not  in  this 
marriage." 

"  Yes,  it  is  —  all  the  heart  I  have,"  Edith  answered 
curtly.  Then,  as  some  emotion  stronger  than  the  others 
swept  over  her,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the  sofa  arm  and 
sobbed,  "  You  are  all  leagued  against  me,  but  I  don't 
care.  I  shall  do  as  I  like.  I  have  promised  to  marry 
Richard,  and  Edith  Hastings  never  lied.  She  will  keep 
her  word,"  and  in  the  eyes  which  she  now  lifted  up,  Grace 
saw  the  tears  glittering  like  diamonds. 

Then  a  merry  laugn  Durst  from  the  lips  of  the  wayward 
girl  as  she  met  Mrs.  Atherton's  anxious  glance,  and  run 
ning  to  the  piano  she  dashed  off  a  most  inspiriting  waltz, 
playing  so  rapidly  that  the  bright  bloom  came  back,  set- 
tling in  a  small  round  spot  upon  her  cheek,  and  making 
her  surpassingly  beautiful  even  to  Grace,  whose  great 
weakness  was  an  unwillingness  to  admit  that  another's 
charms  were  superior  to  her  own.  When  the  waltz  was 
ended  Edith,s  mood  had  changed,  and  turning  to  Grace 
ghe  nestled  closely  to  her,  and  twining  one  of  the  silken 
curls  around  her  fingers,  said  coaxingly, 

"  You  think  me  a  naughty  child  no  doubt,  but  you  do 
not  understand  me.  I  certainly  do  love  Richard  more 
than  you  suppose  ;  and  Grace,  I  want  you  to  help  me,  to 


260  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

encourage  me.  Engaged  girls  always  need  vt,  I  guess, 
and  Victor  is  so  mean,  he  says  all  sorts  of  hateful  things 
about  my  marrying  my  father,  and  all  that.  Perhaps  the 
village  people  will  do  so,  too,  and  if  they  do,  you1!!  stand 
up  for  me,  won't  you  ?  You'll  tell  them  how  much  I  owe  him 
—  how  much  I  love  him,  and,  Grace,"  Edith's  voice  u  is 
very  low  now,  and  sad,  "  and  when  you  write  to  Arth  in 
don't  repeat  the  hateful  things  I  said  before,  but  tell  him 
I'm  engaged ;  that  I'm  the  Swedish  baby ;  that  I  never 
shall  forget  him  quite ;  and  that  I  love  Richard  very 
much." 

Oh,  how  soft  and  plaintive  was  the  expression  of  the 
dark  eyes  now,  as  Edith  ceased  to  speak,  and  pressed  the 
hand  which  warmly  pressed  hers*  back,  for  Grace's  wo- 
manly nature  was  aroused  by  this  appeal,  and  she  resolved 
to  fulfill  the  trust  reposed  in  her  by  Edith.  Instead  of 
hedging  her  way  with  obstacles  she  would  help  her,  if  pos- 
sible ;  would  encourage  her  to  love  the  helpless  blind  man, 
whose  step  was  heard  in  the  hall.  He  was  coming  to  re- 
join them,  and  instantly  into  Edith's  eyes  there  flashed  a 
startled,  shrinking  look,  such  as  the  recreant  slave  may  be 
supposed  to  wear  when  he  hears  his  master's  step.  Grace 
knew  the  feeling  which  prompted  that  look  full  well. 
She  had  felt  it  many  a  time,  in  an  intensified  degreo, 
stealing  over  her  at  the  coming  of  one  whose  snowy  locka 
and  gouty  limbs  had  mingled  many  a  year  with  the  dust 
of  Shannondale,  and  on  her  lips  the  words  were  trembling, 
"  This  great  sacrifice  must  not  be,"  when  Edith  sprang  up, 
and  running  out  into  the  hall,  met  Richard  as  he  came. 

Leading  him  into  the  parlor,  and  seating  him  upon  the 
sofa,  she  sat  beside  him,  holding  his  hand  in  hers,  as  if  she 
thus  would  defy  her  destiny,  or,  at  the  least,  meet  it 
bravely.  Had  Grace  known  of  Victor's  new  name  for 
Edith  she  too  would  have  called  her  "Reed  that  bend^,* 
and  as  it  was  she  thought  her  a  most  incomprehensible 
girl,  whom  no  one  could  fathom,  and  not  caring  to  tarry 
longer,  soon  took  her  leave,  and  the  lovers  were  alone. 


EDITH   AND    THE    WOBLD.  261 

Arrived  at  home,  Grace  opened  her  wri/ing  desk  and 
commenced  a  letter,  which  started  next  day  for  Florida, 
carrying  to  Arthur  St.  Claire  news  which  made  his  brain 
reel  and  grow  giddy  with  pain,  while  his  probed  heart 
throbbed,  and  quivered,  and  bled  with  a  fresh  agony,  as 
rin  his  knees  by  Nina's  pillow  he  prayed,  not  that  the  cup 
>,'f  bitterness  might  pass  from  him  —  he  was  willing  now 
to  quaff  that  to  its  very  dregs,  but  that  Edith  might  be 
happy  with  the  husband  she  had  chosen,  and  that  he,  the 
desolate,  weary  Arthur  might  not  faint  beneath  this  added 
burden. 

Five  weeks  went  by  —  five  weeks  of  busy  talk  among 
the  villagers,  some  of  whom  approved  of  the  engagement, 
while  more  disapproved.  "Where  was  that  proud  South- 
erner ?  they  asked,  referring  to  Arthur  St.  Claire.  They 
thought  him  in  love  with  Edith.  Had  he  deserted  her, 
and  so  in  a  fit  of  pique  she  had  given  herself  to  Richard  ? 
This  was  probably  the  fact,  and  the  gossips,  headed  by 
Mrs.  Eliakim  Rogers,  speculated  upon  it,  while  the  days 
glided  by,  until  the  five  weeks  were  gone,  and  Edith,  sit- 
ting in  Grace's  boudoir,  read,  with  eyes  which  had  not  wept 
since  the  day  following  her  betrothal,  the  following  ex- 
tract from  Arthur's  letter  to  his  cousin  : 

"  Richard  and  Edith !  Oh !  Grace,  Grace !  I  thought 
I  had  suffered  all  that  mortal  man  could  suffer,  but  when 
that  fatal  message  came,  I  died  a  thousand  deaths  in  one, 
enduring  again  the  dreadful  agony  when  in  the  Deering 
woods  I  gave  my  darling  up.  Oh,  Edith,  Edith,  Edith, 
my  soul  goes  after  her  even  now  with  a  quenchle&s, 
mighty  love,  and  my  poor,  bruised,  blistered  heart  throba 
as  if  some  great  giant  hand  were  pressing  its  festered 
wounds,  until  I  faint  with  anguish  and  cry  out,  '  my  pun- 
ishment is  greater  than  I  can  bear.' 

"  Still  I  would  not  have  it  o*herwise,.if  I  could.  I  de- 
serve it  all,  aye,  and  more,  too.  Heaven  bless  them  both, 
Richard  and  bis  beautiful  singing  bird.  Tell  her  so,  Grace. 


262  DAKKNTESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Tell  her  how  I  blessed  her  for  cheering  the  blind  man's 
darkness,  but  do  not  tell  her  how  much  it  costs  me  to  bid 
her,  as  I  now  do,  farewell  forever  and  ever,  farewell." 

It  was  strange  that  Grace  should  have  shown  this  letter 
to  Edith,  but  the  latter  coaxed  so  hard  that  she  reluctantly 
consented,  repenting  of  it  however  when  she  saw  the 
effect  it  had  on  Edith.  Gradually  as  she  read,  there  crept 
over  her  a  look  which  Grace  had  never  seen  before  upon  the 
face  of  any  human  being  —  a  look  as  if  the  pent-up  grief 
of  years  was  concentrated  in  a  single  moment  of  anguish 
too  acute  to  be  described.  There  were  livid  spots  upon 
her  neck  —  livid  spots  upon  her  face,  while  the  dry  eyes 
seemed  fading  out,  so  dull,  and  dim,  and  colorless  they 
looked,  as  Edith  read  the  wailing  cry  with  which  Arthur 
St.  Claire  bade  her  his  adieu. 

For  several  minutes  she  sat  perfectly  motionless,  save 
when  the  muscles  of  her  mouth  twitched  convulsively,  and 
then  the  hard,  terrible  look  gave  way  —  the  spots  began 
to  fade  —  t^he  color  came  back  to  her  cheeks  —  the  eyes 
resumed  their  wonted  brilliancy  —  the  fingers  moved 
nervously,  and  Edith  was  herself.  She  had  suffered  all 
she  could,  and  never  again  would  her  palsied  heai-t  know 
the  same  degree  of  pain  which  she  experienced  when  read- 
ing Arthur's  letter.  It  was  over  now  —  the  worst  of  it. 
Arthur  knew  of  her  engagement  —  blessing  her  for  it,  and 
saying  he  would  not  have  it  otherwise.  The  bitterness  of 
death  was  past,  and  henceforth  none  save  Grace  and  Vic- 
tor suspected  the  worm  which  fed  on  Edith's  very  life,  so 
light,  so  merry,  so  joyous  she  appeared ;  and  Edith  was 
happier  than  she  had  supposed  it  possible  for  her  to  be. 
The  firm  belief  that  she  Avas  doing  right,  was.  of  itself  a 
source  of  peace,  and  helped  to  sustain  her  fainting  spirits, 
still  there  was  about  her  a.  sensation  of  disquiet,  a  feeling 
that  new  scenes  would  do  her  good,  and  as  tb  t  summer 
advanced,  an<l  the  scorching  July  sin  penetrated  even  to 
tho  cool  shades  of  Coliingwood,  she  coaxed  Richard,  Grace 


EDITH   AND   THS  WOELD.  263 

and  Victor  to  go  away.  She  did  not  care  where,  she  said, 
"anything  for  a  change;  she  was  tired  of  seeing  the  same 
things  continually.  She  never  knew  before  how  stupid 
Shannondale  was.  It  must  have  changed  within  the  last 
few  months." 

"  I  think  it  is  you  who  have  changed,"  said  Grace,  fan- 
cying that  she  could  already  foresee  the  restless,  uneasy, 
Bn«l  not  altogether  agreeable  woman,  which  Edith,  as  Rich* 
ard's  wife,  would  assuredly  become. 

Possibly  Richard,  too,  thought  of  this,  for  a  sigh  escaped 
him  as  he  heard  Edith  find  fault  with  her  beautiful  home. 

Still  he  offered  no  remonstrance  to  going  from  home 
awhile,  and  two  weeks  more  found  them  at  the  Catskill 
Mountain  House,  where  at  first  not  one  of  the  assembled 
throng  suspected  that  the  beautiful  young  maiden  who  in 
the  evening  danced  like  a  butterfly  in  their  midst,  and  in 
the  morning  bounded  up  the  rocky  heights  like  some 
fearless,  graceful  chamois,  was  more  than  ward  to  the  man 
who  had  the  sympathy  of  all  from  the  moment  the  whis- 
pered words  went  round,  "  He  is  blind." 

Hour  after  hour  would  Edith  sit  with  him  upon  the 
grass  plat  overlooking  the  deep  ravine,  and  make  him  see 
with  her  eyes  the  gloriously  magnificent  view,  than  which 
there  is  surely  none  finer  in  all  the  world ;  then,  when  the 
Bun  looked  toward  the  west,  and  the  mountain  shadow 
began  to  creep  across  the  valley,  the  river,  and  the  hills 
beyond,  shrouding  them  in  an  early  twilight,  she  would 
lead  him  away  to  some  quiet,  sheltered  spot,  where  un- 
observed, she  could  lavish  upon  him  the  little  acts  of  love 
she  knew  he  so  much  craved  and  which  she  would  not 
give  to  him  when  curious  eyes  were  looking  on.  It  was 
a  blissful  paradise  to  Richard,  and  when  in  after  years  he 
looked  back  upon  the  past,  he  always  recurred  to  those 
few  weeks  as  the  brightest  spot  in  his  whole  life,  blessing 
Edith  for  the  happiness  she  gave  him  during  that  season 
of  delicious  quiet  spent  amid  the  wild  scenery  of  tte 
.  Maintains. 


264  DARKNESS   AND    DAYLIGHT. 

^     '  *" 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  LAND  OF  FLOWERS. 

It  was  the  original  plan  for  the  party  to  remain  two 
Weeks  or  more  at  the  .Mountain  House,  and  then  go  on 
to  Saratoga,  but  so  delighted  were  they  with  the  place 
that  they  decided  to  tarry  longer,  and  the  last  of  August 
found  them  still  inmates  of  the  hotel,  whose  huge  white 
walls,  seen  from  the  Hudson,  stand  out  from  the  dark 
wooded  landscape,  like  some  mammoth  snow  bank,  sug- 
gestive to  the  traveller  of  a  quiet  retreat  and  a  cool  shel- 
ter from  the  summer's  fervid  heat.  Edith's  health  and 
spirits  were  visibly  improved,  and  her  musical  laugh  often 
rang  through  the  house  in  tones  so  merry  and  gleeful  that 
the  most  solemn  of  the  guests  felt  their  boyhood  coming 
back  to  them  as  they  heard  the  ringing  laugh,  and  a  softer 
light  suffused  their  cold,  stern  eyes  as  they  paused  in  the 
midst  of  some  learned  discussion  to  watch  the  frolicsome, 
graceful  belle  of  the  Mountain  House  —  the  bride  elect 
of  the  blind  man. 

It  was  known  to  be  so  now.  The  secret  was  out  — 
told  by  Victor,  when  closely  questioned  with  regard  to 
Edith's  relationship  to  Mr.  Harrington.  It  created  much 
surprise  and  a  world  of  gossip,  but  shielded  Edith  from 
attentions  which  might  otherwise  have  been  annoying, 
for  more  than  Richard  thought  her  the  one  of  all  others 
\vhose  presence  could  make  the  sunshine  of  their  life. 
But  Edith  was  betrothed.  The  dun  leaves  of  October 
would  crown  her  a  wife,  and  so  one  pleasant  morning 
some  half  a  score  young  men,  each  as  like  to  the  other  as 
young  men  at  fashionable  places  of  resort  are  apt  to  be, 
kicked  their  patent  leather  boots  against  -the  pillars  of 
the  rear  piazza,  broke  a  part  of  the  tenth  commandment 


THE    LAND    OF   FLOWERS.  265 

shockingly,  muttered  to  themselves  speeches  anything  but 
complimentary  to  Richard,  and  then,  at  the  appearance  of 
a  plaid  silk  travelling  dress  and  brown  straw  flat,  rushed 
forward  en  masse,  each  contending  frantically  for  the  hon- 
or of  assisting  Miss  Hastings  to  enter  the  omnibus,  where 
lliohard  was  already  seated,  and  which  was  to  convey  a 
| /arty  to  the  glens  of  the  Kauterskill  Falls. 

Edith  had  been  there  often.  The  weird  wildness  of 
the  deep  gorge  suited  her,  and  many  an  hour  had  she 
whiled  away  upon  the  broken  rocks,  watching  the  flecks 
of  sunlight  as  they  came  struggling  down  through  the 
overhanging  trees,  listening  to  the  plaintive  murmur  of 
the  stream,  or  gazing  with  delight  upon  the  fringed, 
feathery  falls  which  hung  from  the  heights  above  like  some 
long,  white,  gauzy  ribbon.  Richard,  on  the  contrary,  had 
never  visited  them  before,  and  he  only  consented  to  do  so 
now  from  a  desire  to  gratify  Edith,  who  acted  as  his  es- 
cort in  place  of  Victor.  Holding  fast  to  her  hand  he 
slowly  descended  the  winding  steps  and  circuitous  paths, 
and  then,  with  a  sad  feeling  of  helpless  dependence,  sat 
down  upon  the  bank  where  Edith  bade  him  sit,  herself 
going  off  in  girlish  ecstasies  as  a  thin  spray  fell  upon  her 
face  and  she  saw  above  her  a  bright-hued  rainbow,  span- 
ning the  abyss. 

"  They  are  letting  the  water  on,"  she  cried,  "  Look,  Rich- 
ard !  do  look ! "  and  she  grasped  his  hand,  while  he  said  to 
her  mournfully, 

u  Has  Birdie  forgotten  that  I  am  blind,  and  helpless, 
and  old  —  that  she  must  lead  me  as  a  child  ?  " 

There  was  a  touching  pathos  in  his  voice  which  went 
straight  to  Edith's  heart,  and  forgetting  the  rainbow,  she 
sat  down  beside  him,  still  keeping  his  hand  in  hers,  and 
asked  what  was  the  matter  ?  She  knew  he  was  unusually 
distuibed,  for  seld  >m  had  she  seen  upon  his  face  a  look  of 
so  great  disquiet.  Suddenly  as  she  remembered  his  un- 
willingness to  come  there  alone,  it  flashed  upon  her  that 
12 


2(56  DARKNESS   AOT>  DAYLIGHT. 

it  might  arise  from  an  aversion  to  seem  so  dependent  njx 
on  a  weak  girl  in  the  presence  of  curious  strangers.  With 
Victor  he  did  not  mind  it,  but  with  her  it  might  be  differ- 
ent, and  she  asked  if  it  were  not  so. 

"  Hardly  that,  darling ;  hardly  that ; "  and  the  sightlfiss 
eyes  drooped  as  if  heavy  with  unshed  tears.  "  Edith," 
and  he  pressed  the  warm  hand  he  held.  "  ours  will  be  an 
unnatural  alliance.  I  needed  only  to  mingle  with  the 
world  to  find  it  so  People  wonder  at  your  choice  — 
wonder  that  one  so  young  as  you  should  choose  a  bat- 
tered, blasted  tree  like  me  round  which  to  twine  the  ten- 
drils of  your  green,  fresh  life." 

"What  have  you  heard?"  Edith  asked,  half  bitterly, 
for  since  their  engagement  was  known  at  the  hotel,  she 
had  more  than  once  suspected  the  truth  of  what  he  said 
to  her.  The  world  did  not  approve,  but  she  would  not 
tell  Richard  that  she  knew  it,  and  she  asked  again  what 
he  had  heard. 

"  The  ear  of  the  blind  is  quick,"  he  replied ;  "  and  as  I 
sat  waiting  in  the  stage  this  morning  I  heard  myself  de- 
nounced as  a  '  blind  old  Hunks,'  a  selfish  dog,  who-  had 
won  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  country.  Then,  as  we  were 
descending  to  this  ravine  you  remember  we  stopped  at 
the  foot  of  some  stairs  while  you  removed  a  brier  from 
your  dress,  and  from  a  group  near  by  I  heard  the  whis- 
pered words,  'There  they  come  —  the  old  blind  man, 
who  bought  his  ward  with  money  and  gratitude.  'Twas 
a  horrid  sacrifice !  Look,  how  beautiful  she  is  ! '  Darling, 
I  liked  to  hear  you  praised,  but  did  not  like  the  rest.  It 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  dragging  you  to  the  altar 
against  your  will.  ^And  what  is  worse  than  all,  the  ver- 
dict of  the  people  here  is  the  verdict  of  the  world.  Edith, 
you  don't  want  me.  You  cannot  wish  to  call  one  hus- 
band whose  dependence  upon  you  will  always  make  you 
blush  for  your  choice.  It  was  gratitude  alone  which 
prompted  your  decision.  Confess  that  it  was,  and  I  gjive 


fHE   LAND   OP   FLOWERS.  267 

you  back  your  troth.  You  need  not  be  the  old  blind 
man's  wife." 

For  an  instant  Edith's  heart  leaped  up,  and  die  sun 
spots  dancing  on  the  leaves  were  brighter  than  she  had 
ever  seen  them,  but  the  feeling  passed  a>*ay,  and  haying 
both  her  hands  reverently  in  Richard's,  she  said, 

u  I  will  be  your  wife.  I  care  nothing  for  the  world,  and 
we  won't  mingle  in  it  any  more  to  cause  remarks.  "We'll 
Btay  at  Collingwood,  where  people  know  us  best.  Let's 
go  home  to-morrow.  I'm  tired  of  this  hateful  place. 
Will  you  go?" 

Ere  Richard  could  answer,  Grace  Atherton  was  heard 
exclaiming, 

"  Ah,  here  you  are.  I've  hunted  everywhere.  Mr.  Rus- 
8211,"  and  she  turned  to  the  dark  man  at  her  side, 
"  this  is  Mr.  Harrington  —  Miss  Hastings  —  Mr.  Russell, 
from  Tallahassee." 

Edith  did  not  at  first  think  that  Tallahassee  was  in 
Florida,  not  many  miles  from  Sunnybank,  and  she  bowed 
to  the  gentleman  as  to  any  stranger,  while  Grace,  who 
had  just  arrived  in  another  omnibus,  explained  to  her 
that  Mr.  Russell  was  a  slight  acquaintance  of  Arthur's ; 
that  the  latter  being  in  town,  and  accidentally  hearing 
that  he  was  coming  North,  had  intrusted  him  with  some 
business  matters,  which  would  require  his  visiting  Grassy 
Spring  —  had  given  him  a  letter  of  introduction  to  her- 
self, said  letter  containing  a  note  for  Edith  —  that 
Mr.  Russell  had  been  to  Shannondale,  and  ascertaining 
their  whereabouts,  had  followed  them,  reaching  the  Moun- 
tain House  in  the  morning  stage. 

"  He  can  spend  but  one  day  here,"  she  added,  in  con- 
elusion,  "  and  wishing  him  to  see  as  much  as  possible  of 
our  northern  grandeur  I  brought  him  at  once  to  the  Falls, 
Here  is  your  note,"  and  tossing  it  into  Edith's  lap  she 
moved  away. 

A  note  from  Arthur !     How  Edith  trembled  as  she  held 


268  DARKNESS   AND  DAYLIGHT. 

it  in  her  hand,  and  with  a  quick,  furtive  glance  at  th« 
sightless  eyes  beside  her,  she  raised  the  dainty  m'ssive  to 
her  lips,  feeling  a  reproachful  pang  as  she  reflected  that 
she  was  breaking  her  vow  to  Richard.  Why  had  Arthui 
written  to  her — she  asked  herself  this  question  many 
times,  while  Richard,  too,  asked, 

"What  news  from  Florida?"  ere  she  broke  the  seal 
and  read,  not  words  of  changeless  and  dark  despair,  but 
words  of  entreaty  that  for  the  sake  of  Nina,  sick,  dying 
Nina,  she  would  come  at  once  to  Florida,  for  so  the  crazj 
girl  had  willed  it,  pleading  with  them  the  live-long  day  to 
send  for  Miggie,  precious  Miggie,  with  the  bright,  black 
eyes,  which  looked  her  into  subjection,  and  the  soft  hands 
which  drove  the  ugly  pain  away. 

"  All  the  summer,"  Arthur  wrote,  "  she  has  been  failing. 
The  heat  seems  to  oppress  her,  and  several  times  I've 
been  on  the  point  of  returning  with  her  to  the  North, 
thinking  I  made  a  mistake  in  bringing  her  here,  but  she 
refuses  to  leave  Sunnybank.  Old  sights  and  familiar  places 
have  a  soothing  effect  upon  her,  and  she  is  more  as  she 
used  to  be  before  the  great  calamity  fell  upon  her.  Her 
disease  is  consumption,  hereditary  like  her  insanity,  and 
as  her  physical  powers  diminish  her  mental  faculties  seem 
to  increase.  The  past  is  not  wholly  a  blank  to  her  now ; 
she  remembers  distinctly  much  that  has  gone  by,  but  of 
nothing  does  she  talk  so  constantly  as  of  Miggie,  asking 
every  hour  if  I've  sent  for  you  —  how  long  before  you'll 
come ;  and  if  you'll  stay  until  she's  dead.  I  think  your 
Doming  will  prolong  her  life ;  and  you  will  never  regret 
it,  I  am  sure.  Mr.  Russell  frill  be  your  escort,  as  he  will 
return  in  three  weeks." 

To  this  note  two  postscripts  were  appended  —  the  first 
in  a  girlish,  uneven  hand,  was  redolent  of  the  boy  Ar- 
thur's "  Florida  rose." 

*•  Miggie,  precious  Miggie  —  come  to  Sunnybank  ;  come 
to  Nina;  She  is  waiting  for  you.  She  wants  you  here  — - 


THE    LAXD    OF   FLOWEBS.  269 

wants  to  lay  her  poor,  empty  head,  where  the  bad  pain 
used  to  be,  on  your  soft,  nice  bosom  —  to  shut  her  eye» 
and  know  it  is  your  breath  she  feels  —  your  sweet,  fra- 
grant breath,  and  not  Arthur's,  brim  full  of  cigar  smoke, 
Do  come,  Miggie,  won't  you  ?  There's  a  heap  of  things  I 
want  to  fix  before  I  die,  and  I  am  dying,  Miggie.  I  see 
it  in  my  hands,  so  poor  and  thin,  not  one  bit  like  they 
used  to  be,  and  I  see  it,  too,  in  Arthur's  actions.  Dear 
Arthur  boy  !  He  is  so  good  to  me  —  carries  me  every 
morning  to  the  window,  and  holds  me  in  his  lap  while  I 
look  out  into  the  garden  where  we  used  to  play,  you  and 
I.  I  think  it  was  you,  but  my  brain  gets  so  twisted,  and 
I  know  the  real  Miggie  is  out  under  the  magnolias,  for  it 
says  so  on  the*stone,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  you  are 
she.  Arthur  has  a  new  name  for  me,  a  real  nice  name,  too. 
He  took  it  from  a  book,  he  says  —  about  just  such  a  wee 
little  girl  as  I  am.  *  Child- wife,'  that's  what  he  calls  me, 
and  he  strokes  my  hair  so  nice.  I'm  loving  Arthur  a 
heap,  Miggie.  It  seems  just  as  if  he  was  my  mother,  and 
the  name  '  Child- wife '  makes  little  bits  of  waves  run  all  over 
me.  He's  a  good  boy,  and  God  will  pay  him  by  and  by 
for  what  he's  been  to  me.  Some  folks  here  call  me 
Mrs.  St.  Claire.  Why  do  they  ?  Sometimes  I  remember 
something  about  somebody  somewhere,  more  than  a  hun- 
dred years  ago,  but  just  as  I  think  I've  got  hold  of  it  right, 
it  goes  away.  I  lose  it  entirely,  and  my  head  is  so  snarled 
up.  Come  and  unsnarl  it,  wont  you?  Nina  is  sick, Nina 
is  dying,  Nina  is  crazy.  You  must  come." 

The  second  postscript  showed  a  bolder,  firmer  hand,  and 
Edith  read, 

"  I,  too,  echo  Nina's  words, '  Come,  Miggie,  come.'  Nina 
wants  you,  and  I  —  Heaven  only  knows  how  much  I  want 
you — but,  Edith,  were  you  in  verity  Richard's  w'fe,you 
could  not  be  ir;  -re  sacred  tome  than  you  are  as  his  be- 
trothed, and  I  promise  solemnly  that  I  will  not  seek  to 
influence  your  decision.  The  time  is  surely  coming  when 


270  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

I  shall  be  alone ;  no  gentle  Nina,  sweet  *  Child-wife '  cling, 
ing  to  me.  She  will  be  gone,  and  -her  Arthur  boy,  as  she 
calls  me,  free  to  love  whomsoever  he  will.  But  this  shall 
make  no  difference.  I  have  given  you  to  Richard.  1 
will  not  wrong  the  blind  man.  Heaven 'bless  you  both 
and  bring  you  to  us." 

The  sun  shone  just  as  brightly  in  the  summer  skj  — 
the  Kauterskill  fell  as  softly  into  the  deep  ravine  —  the 
shouts  of  the  tourists  were  just  as  gay  —  the  flecks  of 
sunshine  on  the  grass  danced  just  as  merrily,  but  Edith 
did  not  heed  them.  Her  thoughts  were  riveted  upon  the 
lines  she  had  read,  and  her  heart  throbbed  with  an  unutter- 
able desire  to  respond  at  once  to  that  pleading  call  —  to 
take  to  herself  wings  and  fly  away  —  away*  over  mountain 
and  valley,  river  and  rill,  to  the  fair  land  of  flowers  where 
Nina  was,  and  where  too  was  Arthur.  As  she  read,  she 
uttered  no  sound,  but  when  at  last  Richard  said  to  her, 

"  What  is  it,  Birdie  ?  Have  you  heard  bad  news  ?  "  her 
tears  flowed  at  once,  and  leaning  her  head  upon  his  shoul- 
der, she  answered, 

"  Nina  is  dying  —  dear  little,  bright-haired  Nina.  She 
has  sent  for  me.  She  wants  me  to  come  so  much.  May 
I,  Richard  ?  May  I  go  to  Nina  ?  " 

"  Read  me  the  letter, "  was  Richard's  reply,  his  'voice 
unusually  low  and  sad. 

Edith  could  not  read  the  whole.  Arthur's  postscript 
must  be  omitted,  as  well  as  a  portion  of  Nina's,  but  she 
did  the  best  she  could,  breaking  down  entirely  when  she 
reached  the  point  where  Nina  spoke  of  her  Arthur  boy's 
goodness  in  carrying  her  to  the  window. 

Richard,  too,  was  much  affected,  and  his  voice  trembled 
as  he  said,  "  St.  Claire  is  a  noble  fellow.  I  always  frit 
strangely  drawn  toward  him.  Isn't  there  something  be- 
tween him  and  Nina  —  something  more  than  mere  guardi- 
anship?" 

"  They  were  engaged  before  she  was  crazy,"  returned 


THE   LA1TO   OF   FLOWEU8.  271 

fidith,  while  Richard  sighed,  "poor  boy,  poor  boy!  It 
must  be  worse  than  death.  His  darkness  is  greater  thai? 
mine." 

Then  iris  thoughts  came  back  to  Edith's  question,  "  May 
I  go  to  Nina  ?  "  and  his  first  feeling  was  that  she  might, 
even  though  her  going  would  necessarily  defer  a  day  to 
which  he  was  so  continually  looking  foward,  but  when  he 
remembered  the  danger  to  which  she  would  be  exposed 
from  the  intense  heat  at  that  season  of  the  year,  he  shrank 
from  it  at  once,  mildly  but  firmly  refusing  to  let  her  incur 
the  fearful  risk. 

"  Could  I  be  assured  that  my  bird  would  fly  back  to  me 
again  with  its  plumage  all  unruffled  I  would  let  her  go," 
he  said,  "  but  the  chances  are  against  it.  You  would  sure- 
lj  sicken  and  die,  and  I  cannot  let  you  go. 

Edith  offered  no  remonstrance,  but  her  face  was  very 
white  and  her  eyes  strangely  black  as  she  said,  "Let  us  go 
home,  then ;  go  to-morrow.  This  is  no  place  for  me,  with 
Nina  dying. 

Nothing  could  please  Richard  more  than  to  be  back  at 
Collingwood,  and  when  Grace  came  to  them  he  announced 
his  intention  of  leaving  on  the  morrow.  Grace  was  will- 
ing, and  Victor,  when  told  of  the  decision,  was  wild  with 
delight.  Mr.  Russell,  too,  decided  to  go  with  them  to 
Shannondale,  and  when,  next  morning,  the  party  came  out 
to  take  the  downward  stage,  they  found  him  comfortably 
seated  on  the  top,  whither  he  had  but  little  trouble  in 
coaxing  Grace,  who  expressed  a  wish  to  enjoy  the  moun- 
tain scenery  as  they  descended. 

"  Will  Miss  Hastings  come  up,  too  ?  "  he  asked,  but 
Edi;h  declined  and  took  her  seat  inside  between  Richard 
and  Victor,  the  latter  of  whom  had  heard  nothing  of  the 
letter ;  neither  did  Edith  tell  him  until  the  next  day  when, 
arrived  at  Collingwood,  they  were  alone  for  a  moment  in 
the  library  —  then  she  explained  to  him  that  Nina  wa* 
sick,  possibly  had  sent  for  her. 


272  DARKNESS  AND   DAYLIGHT. 

UI  thought  things  would  work  out  after  a  time,  though 
honestly  I'd  rather  that  little  girl  shouldn't  die  if  it  could 
be  brought  round  any  other  way,"  was  Victor's  reply, 
which  called  a  flush  at  once  to  Edith's  cheek. 

"  Victor  Dupres,"  said  she,  "  never  hint  such  a  thing 
again..  It  is  too  late  now ;  it  cannot  be  —it  shall  not  be; 
and  if  I  go,  Arthur  has  promised  not  to  say  one  '.vord 
which  can  influence  me." 

"If  you  go,"  repeated  Victor,  "Then  you  have  some 
intention  of  going —  I  thought  he  had  objected." 

"  So  he  has,"  returned  Edith,  the  same  look  stealing  in- 
to her  eyes  which  came  there  at  the  Falls.  "  So  he  has, 
but  if  Nina  lives  till  the  middle  of  October  I  shall  go. 
My  mind  is  made  up." 

"  Oh,  consistency,  thou  art  a  jewel,"  muttered  Victor, 
as  hearing  some  one  coming,  he  walked  away.  "  Means 
to  jump  down  the  lion's  throat,  but  does  not  expect  to  be 
swallowed !  Splendid  logic  that ! "  and  Victor  shrugged 
his  shoulders  at  what  seemed  so  contradictory  as  Edith's 
talk  and  Edith's  conduct. 

As  she  had  said,  Edith  meant  to  go,  nay  more,  was  deter- 
mined to  go,  and  when,  on  the  third  day  after  their  return, 
Mr.  Russell  came  for  her  final  decision,  she  said  to  him, 
ere  Richard  had  time  to  speak, 

"  I  shall  not  go  now ;  it  is  too  early  for  that,  but  if  Nina 
continues  worse,  I  will  come  to  her  the  latter  part  of  Oc- 
tober. I  am  writing  so  to  her  to-day." 

Richard  was  ionfounded,  and  could  only  stammer  out, 

"  Who  is  to  b  -3  your  escort  ?  " 

"  You,  Richard ; "  and  Edith  clasped  his  arm,  thus  re- 
assuring him  at  once. 

She  had  some  thought,  some  consideration  for  him  ;  she 
did  not  intend  to  desert  him  wholly,  and  he  playfully 
tapped  her  chin,  laughing  to  think  how  the  little  lady  had 
boldly  taken  matters  into  her  own  hands,  telling  what 
should  be  with  as  much  sang  froid  as  if  she  were  master 


THE   LA3TC>   OP   PLOWEES.  273 

instead  of  himself.  And  Richard  rather  liked  the  inde* 
pendent  spirit  of  Edith,  particularly  when  he  found  that 
he  was  not  wholly  left  out  of  her  calculations.  And  so 
he  arranged  with  Mr.  Russell,  that  if  Nina  were  not  bet- 
ter as  the  autumn  advanced,  Edith  should  perhaps  go 
down  to  see  her. 

Arthur  had  made  his  marriage  with.  Nina  public  as 
goon  as  he  returned  to  Sunnybank,  but  as  Mr.  Russell's 
he  me  was  in  Tallahassee,  and  he  himself  a  quiet,  taciturn 
man,  he  had  not  heard  of  it,  and  in  speaking  of  Nina  to 
Edith,  he  called  her  Miss  Bernard,  as  usual,  and  thus 
Richard  still  remained  in  ignorance,  never  suspecting  that 
golden  haired  Nina  was  the  same  young  girl  he  had  mar- 
ried years  before. 

Poor  Richard,  he  was  ignorant  of  many  things,  and 
never  dreamed  how  light  and  gay  was  Edith's  heart  at 
the  prospect  of  going  to  Florida,  even  though  she  half 
expected  that  when  she  went  it  would  be  as '  his  wife. 
But  Richard  determined  it  otherwise.  It  cost  him  a 
struggle  so  to  do,  but  his  iron  will  conquered  every  feel- 
ing, save  those  of  his  better  judgment,  and  calling  Edith 
to  him  one  day  two  weeks  after  Mr.  Russell's  departure 
he  said, 

"  Birdie,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  blind  man 
like  me  will  only  be  in  your  way,  in  case  you  go  to  Florida, 
I  am  not  an  interesting  tiaveling  companion.  I  require 
too  much  care,  and  I  dread  the  curious  gaze  of  strangers. 
It  makes  me  very  uncomfortable.  So  on  the  whole  I'd 
rather  stay  at  home  and  let  Victor  go  in  my  stead.  What 
does  Birdie  Hay?" 

u  Sne  says  you  are  the  noblest,  most  unselfish  rran  that 
ver  lived,"  and  Edith  kissed  his  lips,  chiding  ^erself  so- 
riously  for  the  spirit  which  whispered  to  her  that  she  too 
would  rather  go  without  him.  "  I  won't  stay  very  long," 
nhe  said.  "Our  wedding  need  not  be  deferred  more  than 
two  months ;  say,  till  the  first  of  January,  at  7  o'clock, 


274  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

just  as  we  before  arranged  it  for  October,  only  a  more 
quiet  affair.  I  shall  then  be  your  New  Year's  gift.  Doeft 
that  suit  you,  dearest  ?  " 

Siie  did  not  often  call  him  thus,  and  when  she  did  she 
was  sure  of  accomplishing  her  purpose.  The  strong  man 
melted  beneath  a  few  words  of  love,  becoming  a  very 
tool  in  the  hands  of  a  weak  girl. 

"  Yes,  darling,"  he  replied,  "  that  will  do  —  but  suppos- 
ing we  hear  that  Nina  is  better,  or  dead —  what  then  ?  " 

The  mere  possibility  was  terrible  to  Edith,  but  she  an- 
•swered  calmly, 

"Then  well  be  married  in  October,  just  as  first  pro- 
posed ; "  and  thus  was  the  die  cast,  and  a  fresh  link  added 
to  the  chain  of  Edith's  destiny.  She  was  going  to  Flori- 
da ;  going  to  Arthur ;  and  going  alone,  so  far  as  Richard 
was  concerned. 

Spying  Victor  coming  up  the  walk  from  the  post-office, 
she  ran  out  to  meet  him,  telling  him  of  the  journey  before 
him,  and  almost  crying  for  joy  when  he  placed  in  her 
hand  a  worn  envelope  bearing  the  post-mark  of  Tallahassee. 
It  was  from  Arthur,  and  contained  a  few  lines  only,  tell- 
ing of  Nina's  increasing  illness,  and  her  restless,  impatient 
desire  for  Miggie.  In  conclusion  he  wrote, 

"We  have  had  no  fever  this  summer.  You  will  be 
perfectly  safe  in  coming  any  time  after  the  middle  of  Oc- 
tober. I  shall  welcome  Mr.  Harrington  most  cordially  if 
he  sees  fit  to  accompany  you." 

Edith  could  read  this  to  Richard,  and  she  did,  feeling 
a  pang  at  the  perfect  faith  with  which  he  answered, 

"  Were  it  not  for  the  tedious  journey  I  believe  I  would 
go  with  you,  but  it's  too  much  of  an  undertaking.  1 
won't  trammel  you  with  so  great  a  burden.  I'd  rather 
stay  at  home  and  anticipate  my  darling's  return." 

Then  with  the  same  forethought  and  careful  considera- 
tion which  marked  all  his  actions,  Richard  consulted  with 
her  .as  to  the  best  time  for  her  to  start,  fixing  upon  th« 


SUSTNYBANK  275 

I5tli  of  October,  and  making  all  his  arrangements  subser- 
vient to  this.  He  did  not  tell  her  how  lonely  he  should 
be  without  her  —  how  he  should  miss  her  merry  laugh- 
wt  ieh,  strango  to  say,  grew  merrier  each  day ;  but  he  let 
her  know  in  various  ways  ho  w  infinitely  precious  she  waa 
to  him,  and  more  than  once  Edith  felt  constrained  to  give 
up  the  journey,  but  the  influences  from  Florida  drew  hei 
strangely  in  that  direction,  auti  resolving  to  pay  Richard 
for  his  self-denial  by  an  increase  of  love  when  she  should 
return,  she  busied  herself  with  her  preparations  until  the 
15th  of  October  came,  and  her  trunks  stood  ready  in  the 
hall. 

"  If  I  could  only  read  your  letters  myself,  it  would  not 
Beem  one-half  so  bad,"  Richard  said,  when  at  the  last 
moment,  he  held  Edith's  hand,  "but  there's  a  shadow 
over  me  this  morning  —  a  dark  presentiment  that  in  suf- 
fering you  to  leave  me  I  am  losing  you  forever." 

Edith  could  not  answer,  she  pitied  him  so  much,  and 
kissing  his  lips,  she  put  from  her  neck  his  clinging  arms, 
wiped  his  tears  away,  smoothed  his  ruSled  hair,  and  then 
went  out  from  his  presence,  leaving  him  there  in  his  sor- 
row and  blindness  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXVHL 


"  Berry  soon,  Miss,  an'  we're  thar.  We  turns  the  cor- 
nei  yonder,  we  drives  'crosn  the  plain,  down  a  hill,  up 
anoder,  an'  then  we's  mighty  nigh  a  mile  from  the  spot." 

Such  was  the  answer  made  by  Tom,  the  Bernard  coach* 
man  to  Edith's  repeated  inquiries,  "Are  we  almost 
there." 

For  three  successive  days  the  Bernard   carriage  had 


276  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

been  to  Tallahassee  in  quest  of  the  expected  guest,  whos« 
coming  was  watched  for  so  eagerly  at  Sunnybank,  and 
who,  as  the  bright  October  afternoon  was  drawing  to  ita 
close,  looked  eagerly  out  at  a  huge  old  house  which  stood 
not  veiy  far  distant  with  the  setting  sun  shining  >n 
the  roof  and  illuminating  all  the  upper  windows.  A 
nearer  approach  showed  it  to  *be  a  large,  square,  wooden 
building,  divided  in  the  centre  by  a  wide,  airy  hall,  and 
surrounded  on  three  sides  by  a  verandah,  the  whole 
bearing  a  more  modern  look  than  most  of  the  country 
houses  in  Florida,  for  Mr.  Bernard  had  possessed  consid- 
erable taste,  and  during  his  life  had  aimed  at  fitting  up 
his  residence  somewhat  after  the  northern  fashion.  To 
Edith  there  was  something  familiar  about  that  old  build- 
ing, with  its  handsome  grounds,  and  she  said  aloud, 

"  I've  surely  dreamed  of  Sunnybank." 

"Berry  likely,  Miss,"  answered  Tom,  thinking  the  re- 
mark addressed  to  him,  inasmuch  as  Edith's  head  protru- 
ded from  the  window.  "Dreams  is  mighty  onsartin. 
Git  'long,  you  Bill,  none  o'  yer  lazy  carlicues,  case  don't 
yer  mind  thar's  Mars'r  Arthur  on  the  v'randy,  squinting 
to  see  if  I's  fetched  'em,n  and  removing  his  old  straw  hat, 
Tom  swung  it  three  times  around  his  head,  that  being  the 
signal  he  was  to  give  if  Edith  were  in  the  carriage. 

With  an  increased  flush  upon  his  brow,  Arthxir  St. 
Claire  hastened  down,  pausing  at  an  inner  room  while  he 
bent  over  and  whispered  to  a  young  girl  reclining  on  her 
pillow, 

"  Nina,  darling,  Miggie's  come." 

There  was  a  low  cry  of  unutterable  delight,  and  Nina 
Bernard  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow,  looking  wistfully 
toward  the  door  through  which  Arthur  had  disappeared. 

"Be  quiet, la  petite  Nina,"  said  a  short,  thick  woman, 
who  sat  by  the  bed,  apparently  officiating  in  the  capacity 
of  nurse ;  then,  as  the  carnage  stopped  at  the  gate,  she 
glided  to  the  window,  muttering  to  herself,  "  Charmant 


277 

eharmant,  magnifique?  as  she  caught  a  full  view  of  the 
eager,  sparkling  face,  turned  toward  the  young  man  has- 
tening down  the  walk.  •  Then,  with  that  native  politeness 
natural  to  her  country,  she  moved  away  so  as  not  to  wit 
r  -ass  the  interview. 

"  Arthur ! " 

"  Edith ! " 

That  was  all  they  said,  for  Richard  and  Nina  stood  be- 
t»veen  them,  a  powerful  preventive  to  the  expression  of 
the  great  joy  throbbing  in  the  heart  of  each,  as  hand 
grasped  hand,  and  eye  sought  eye,  fearfully,  tremblingly, 
lest  too  much  should  be  betrayed. 

"Miggie,  Miggie,  be  quick,"  came  from  the  room  where 
Nina  was  now  standing  up  in  bed,  her  white  night  dress 
hanging  loosely  about  her  forehead  and  neck. 

It  needed  but  this  to  break  the  spell  which  bound  the 
two  without,  and  dropping  Edith's  hand,  Arthur  conduct- 
ed her  to  the  house,  meeting  in  the  hall  with  Nina,  who, 
in  spite  of  Mrs.  Lamotte  had  jumped  from  her  bed.  and 
skipping  across  the  floor,  flung  herself  into  Edith's  arms, 
sobbing  frantically, 

"You  did  come,  precious  Miggie,  to  see  sick  Nina, 
didn't  you,  and  you'll  stay  forever  and  ever,  won't  you, 
my  own  sweet  Miggie,  and  Arthur's  too  ?  Oh,  joy,  joy, 
Nina's  so  happy  to-night." 

The  voice  grew  very  faint,  the  white  lips  ceased  their 
pressure  of  kisses  upon  Edith's  —  the  golden  head  began 
to  droop,  and  Arthur  took  the  fainting  girl  in  his  arms, 
carrying  her  back  to  her  bed,  where  he  laid  her  gently 
down,  himself  caring  for  her  until  she  began  to  revive. 

Meanwhile  Edith  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Lamotte,  3 
trench  woman,  who  once  was  Nina's  nurse,  and  who  had 
come  to  Sunnybank  a  few  weeks  before.  Any  one  at  all 
interested  in  Nina  was  sure  of  a  place  in  Edith's  affections, 
and  she  readily  took  Mrs.  Lamotte's  proffered  hand,  but 
she  was  not  prepared  for  the  peculiarly  curious  gaze  fast/ 


278  DARKNESS   AND   1  AYLIGHT. 

ened  upon  her,  as  Mrs.  Lamotte  waved  off  Teeny,  th« 
black  girl,  and  taking  her  traveling  bag  and  shawl,  said  to 
her, 

"This  way,  s'il  vous  plait,  Mademoiselle  Marguerite. 
Pw/donnez  moi"  she  added  quickly,  as  she  met  Edith's 
questioning  glance,  "Mademoiselle  Miggie,  as  lapetitt 
Nina  calls  you." 

Once  in  Edith's  room,  Mrs.  Lamotte  did  not  seem  in 
haste  to  leave  it,  but  continued  talking  in  both  English 
and  French  to  Edith,  who,  more  than  once,  as  the  tones 
fell  upon  her  ear,  turned  quickly  to  see  if  it  were  not 
some  one  she  had  met  before. 

"  Je  m'en  irai,  Mrs.  Lamotte  said  at  last,  as  she  saw 
that  her  presence  was  annoying  Edith ;  and  as  the  latter 
offered  no  remonstrance,  she  left  the  room,  and  Edith  was 
alone  with  her  confused  thoughts. 

Where  was  she  ?  What  room  was  this,  with  the  deep 
window  seats,  and  that  wide-mouthed  fire-place  ?  Who 
was  this  woman  that  puzzled  her  so  ?  Edith  kept  asking 
herself  these  questions,  but  could  find  for  them  no  satisfac- 
tory answer.  Struggle  as  she  might,  she  felt  more  like  a 
child  returned  to  its  home  than  like  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land.  Even  the  soft  south  wind,  stealing  through  the 
open  casement,  and  fanning  her  feverish  cheek,  had  some- 
thing familiar  in  its  breath,  as  if  it  had  stolen  in  upon  her 
thus  aforetime ;  and  when  across  the  fields,  she  heard  the 
negroes'  song  as  they  came  homeward  from  their  toil,  she 
laid  her  head  upon  the  window  sill,  and  wept  for  the 
something  which  swept  over  her,  something  so  sweet,  so 
gad,  and  yet  so  indescribable. 

Fearing  lest  the  Frenchwoman  should  return,  she  made 
a  hasty  toilet,  and  then  stole  down  to  Nina,  who,  wholly 
exhausted  with  the  violence  of  her  emotions  at  meeting 
Edith,  lay  perfectly  still  upon  her  pillow,  scarcely  whitei 
than  her  own  childish  fac  ;,  round  which  a  ray  of  the  set- 
ting sun  was  shining,  encircling  it  with  a  halo  of  glorioua 


279 

beauty,  and  making  her  look  like  an  angel  of  purity  and 
love.  She  did  not  attempt  to  speak  as  Edith  came  in, 
but  her  eyes  smiled  a  welcome,  and  her  thin,  wasted  fingera 
pointed  to  where  Edith  was  to  sit  upon  the  bed  beside 
her.  Arthur  sat  on  the  other  side,  holding  one  of  Nina'8 
hands,  and  the  other  was  given  to  Edith,  who  pressed  it 
to  her  lips,  while  her  tears  dropped  upon  it  like  rain.  The 
sight  of  them  disturbed  the  sick  girl,  and  shaking  her 
wealth  of  curls  which,  since  Edith  saw  them,  had  grown 
thick  and  long,  she  whispered, 

"  Don't,  Miggie ;  tears  are  not  for  Nina ;  she's  so  glad, 
for  she  is  almost  home.  She'll  go  down  to  the  river  brink 
with  your  arms  and  Ai'thur  boy's  around  her.  Precious 
Miggie,  nice  Arthur.  Nina  is  happy  to-night." 

Such  were  the  disjointed  sentences  she  kept  whispering, 
while  her  eyes  turned  from  Edith  to  Arthur  and  from  Ar- 
thur back  to  Edith-,  resting  longer  there,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face  told  of  the  unutterable  joy  within.  Soft- 
ly the  twilight  shadows  stole  into  the  room,  and  the  ser- 
vants glided  in  and  out,  casting  furtive  and  wondering 
glances  at  Edith,  who  saw  nothing  save  the  clear  blue 
eyes  shining  upon  her,  even  through  the  gathering  dark- 
ness, and  telling  her  of  the  love  which  could  not  be  ex- 
pressed. 

As  it  grew  darker  Nina  drew  the  two  hands  she  clasped 
together — Arthur's  and  Edith's  —  laid  them  one  above  the 
other  upon  her  bosom,  pressed  her  own  upon  them,  and  when, 
at  last,  the  candles  were  brought  in  and  placed  upon  the 
table,  Edith  saw  that  the  weary  lids  had  closed  and  Nina 
was  asleep.  Every  effort,  however,  which  she  made  to 
disengage  her  hand  from  its  rather  embarrassing  position, 
threatened  to  arouse  the  sleeper,  and  for  nearly  half  an 
hour  she  sat  there  with  her  hand  beneath  Arthur's,  but 
she  dared  not  look  at  him,  and  with  her  face  turned  away, 
she  answered  his  questions  concerning  Shannondale  and 
its  inhabitants. 


280  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

After  a  time  Mrs.  Lamotte  came  in  and  asked  if  mad- 
emoiselle would  like  to  retire.  Edith  would  far  rathei 
Lave  gone  to  her  room  alone,  but  Mrs.  Lamotte  seemed 
bent  upon  hovering  near  her,  and  as  there  was  no  alterna- 
tive she  followed  her  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  chamber, 
where  she  had  lain  aside  her  things.  To  her  great  relief 
her  companion  did  not  stay  longer  than  necessary,  and 
ere  the  entire  household  was  still,  Edith  was  dreaming  of 
Collingwood  and  Richard. 

The  next  morning  was  bright,  balmy,  and  beautiful,  and 
at  an  early  hour  Edith  arose  and  went  down  to  Nina,  who 
heard  her  step  in  the  hall,  and  called  to  her  to  come. 

"  Darling  Miggie,  I  dreamed  you  were  gone,"  she  said, 
''  and,  I  cried  so  hard  that  it  woke  Arthur  up.  He  sleeps 
here  every  night,  on  that  wide  lounge,"  and  she  pointed 
toward  a  corner.  "  I've  grown  so  silly  that  I  won't  let 
any  body  else  take  care  of  me  but  Arthur  boy  —  he  does 
it  so  nice  and  lifts  me  so  carefully.  Hasn't  he  grown  pale 
and  thin  ?  " 

Edith  hardly  knew,  for  she  had  not  ventured  to  look 
fully  at  him,  but  she  assumed  that  he  had,  and  Nina  con- 
tinued :  "  He's  a  darling  boy,  and  Nina  loves  him  now." 

"  How  is  your  head  this  morning,"  Edith  asked,  and 
Nina  replied,  "  It's  better.  It  keeps  growing  better,  some 
days  it's  clear  as  a  bell,  but  I  don't  like  it  so  well,  for  I 
know  then  that  you  ain't  Miggie,  —  not  the  real  Miggie 
who  was  sent  home  in  mother's  coffin.  We  have  a  new 
burying  ground,  one  father  selected  long  ago,  the  sweet- 
est spot  you  ever  saw,  and  they  are  moving  the  bodies 
there  now.  They  are  going  to  take  up  my  last  mother, 
and  the  little  bit  of  Miggie  to-day,  and  Marie  is  so  flur- 
ried." 

Arthur's  step  was  now  heard  in  the  jail,  and  this  it 
was  which  so  excited  Edith  that  she  failed  to  catch  the 
Word  Marie,  or  to  understand  that  it  was  Mrs.  Lamotte 
Who  was  worried  about  the  removal  of  the  bodies.  In  a 


SUNHTTBAITK.  281 

moment  Arthur  appeared,  bringing  a  delicate  bouquet  fof 
Nina,  and  a  world  of  sunshine  to  Edith.  He  was  changed, 
Edith  saw  as  she  looked  at  him  now,  and  yet  she  liked 
his  face  hotter  than  before.  He  seemed  to  her  like  one 
ovrr  whom  the  fire  had  passed,  purifying  as  it  burned, 
and  leaving  a  better  metal  than  it  had  found.  He  wsw 
wholly  self-possessed  this  morning,  greeting  her  as  if  the 
sccme  in  the  Deering  woods  had  never  been  enacted,  and 
she  could  hardly  believe  that  they  were  the  same,  the 
Arthur  of  one  year  ago,  and  the  Arthur  of  to-day ;  tho 
quiet,  elegant  young  man,  who,  with  more  than  womanly 
tenderness,  pushed  Nina's  curls  back  under  her  lace  cap, 
kissed  her  forehead,  and  then  asked  Edith  if  she  did  not 
look  like  a  little  nun  with  her  hair  so  plain. 

Nina  liked  to  be  caressed,  and  she  smiled  upon  him  a 
smile  so  full  of  trusting  faith  and  love,  that  Edith's  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  her  rebellious  heart  went  out  toward 
Arthur  as  it  had  never  done  before,  inasmuch  as  she  felt 
that  he  was  now  far  more  worthy  of  her. 

Very  rapidly  the  morning  passed  away,  and  it  was  after 
three  o'clock  p.  M.,  when,  as  Arthur  sat  with  Edith  upon 
the  cool  piazza,  one  of  the  negroes  came  running  up,  the 
perspiration  starting  from  every  pore,  and  himself  almost 
frantic  with  excitement. 

"  What  is  it,  Cassar  ?  Arthur  asked.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened to  you  ?  " 

"Nothing  to  me,  Mars'r,"  returned  the  negro;  "but 
sumfin  mighty  curis  happen  over  dar,"  and  he  pointed  in 
the  direction  where  his  comrades  were  busy  removing  the 
family  dead  to  a  spot  selected  by  Mr.  Bernard  years  be- 
fore as  one  more  suitable  than  the  present  location.  "  You 
&w,  we  was  histin'  de  box  of  the  young  Miss  and  de  chile, 
when  Bill  let  go  his  holv,  and  I  kinder  let  my  hands  slip 
offj  when,  Lor'  bless  you,  the  box  busted  open,  an'  we  seen 
the  coffin  spang  in  the  face.  Says  Bill,  says  he — he's 
ftllus  a  reasouin',  you  know  —  an',  says  he, '  that's  a  mighty 


282  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

narrer  coffin  for  two;'  and  wid  that,  Mr.  Berry,  the  over 
Beer,  Miss,"  turning  to  Edith,  "  He  walked  up,  and  findin' 
de  screws  rattlin'  and  loose,  just  turned  back  de  top  piece, 
an',  as  true  as  Caesar's  standin'  here,  there  wasn't  no  chile 
thar ;  nothin'  'tall  but  the  Miss,  an'  she  didn't  look  no 
how ;  never  should  have  guessed  them  heap  of  bones  had 
ever  been  Miss  Petry." 

Edi'.h  started  from  her  chair  and  was  about  to  speak 
when  a  hand  was  laid  upon  her  wrist,  and  turning,  she 
saw  Mrs.  Lamotte  standing  behind  her,  and  apparently 
more  excited  than  herself. 

"  Come  with  me,"  she  said,  leading  the  unresisting  Edith 
away,  and  leaving  Arthur  to  follow  Caesar. 

Of  all  the  household  at  Sunnybank  no  one  had  been  so 
much  interested  in  the  removal  of  the  bodies  as  Mrs.  La- 
motte, and  yet  her  interest  was  all  centered  upon  the 
grave  of  Miggie  Bernard's  mother.  When  that  was  dis- 
turbed, she  was  watching  from  her  window,  and  when  the 
accident  occurred  which  revealed  the  fraud  of  years,  she 
hurried  down  and,  with  a  cat-like  tread,  glided  behind 
.  Edith's  chair  where  she  stood  while  Caesar  told  his  story. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  Edith's  feeling  as 
she  followed  the  strange  woman  up  to  her  own  room,  sit- 
ting down  just  where  Mrs.  Lamotte  bade  her  sit,  and 
watching  nervously  the  restless  rolling  of  the  eyes,  which 
had  no  terror  for  her  now,  particularly  after  their  owner 
said  to  her  in  French, 

"Do  you  know  me,  Edith  Hastings,  Eloise  Temple, 
Marguerite  Bernard  ?  Have  we  never  met  before  ?  " 

Like  the  rushing  of  some  mighty,  pent  up  flood  the 
past  swept  over  her  then,  almost  bearing  her  senses  down 
with  the  headlong  tide ;  link  after  link  was  joined,  until 
the  chain  of  evidence  was  complete,  and  with  a  scream  of 
joy  Edith  went  forward  to  the  arms  unfolded  to  receive 
her. 

"  Marie,  Marie ! "  she  cried.  "  How  is  it  ?  When  wa» 
it  ?  Where  was  it  ?  Am  I  anybody  or  not,  tell  me  ?  n 


SUNNTBANK.  283 

Then  question  followed  question  so  rapidly  that  Marie, 
with  all  her  voluble  French  and  broken  English,  was  hard- 
ly able  to  keep  up.  But  the  whole  was  told  at  last 
everything  was  clear  to  Edith  as  the  daylight,  and  totter- 
ing to  the  bed,  she  asked  to  be  alone,  while  she  wept  and 
prayed  over  this  great  joy,  which  haxi  come  so  suddenly 
upon  her. 

"Nina,  Nina.  I  thank  thee,  oh,  my  Father,  for  sweet, 
precious  Nina." 

That  was  all  she  could  say,  as  with  her  face  in  the  pil 
lows,  she  lay  until  the  sun  went  down,  and  night  fell  a 
second  time  on  Sunnybank. 

a  No  one  shall  tell  her  but  myself,"  she  thought  as  she 
descended  to  Nina's  room,  where  Arthur  was  telling  of 
the  discovery  they  had  made  —  a  discovery  for  which  he 
could  not  account,  and  about  which  the  negroes,  congre- 
gated together  in  knots,  were  talking,  each  offering  his  or 
her  own  theory  with  regard  to  the  matter,  and  never  once 
thinking  to  question  Mrs.  Lamotte,  who,  they  knew,  had 
been  with  Mrs.  Bernard  when  she  died. 

"  Oh,  Miggie !  "  Nina  cried.  "  Have  you  heard  ?  do 
you  know?  Little  Miggie  isn't  there  where  we  thought 
she  was.  She's  gone.  Nobody's  there  but  my  other 
mother." 

M  Yes,  I  know,"  Edith  answered,  and  laying  her  hand 
on  Arthur's  she  said,  "Please,  Mr.  St  Claire,  go  away- 
awhile.    I  must  see  Nina  alone.    Don't  let  anybody  dis- 
turb us,  will  you  ?    Go  to  Mrs.  Lamotte.    Ask  her  what  I 
mean.     She  can  tell  you.     She  t«ld  me." 

Thus  importuned,  Arthur  left  the  room,  and  Edith  wai 
alone  with  Nina. 


284  DABKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE    SISTBBS. 

Ob,  how  Edith  yearned  to  take  that  sweet  young  ciea- 
lure  to  her  bosom,  and  concentrate  in  one  wild,  passionato 
bug  the  love  of  so  many  wasted  years ;  but  Nina  must 
not  be  unduly  startled  if  she  would  make  her  compre- 
hend what  she  had  to  tell,  and  conquering  her  own  agita- 
tion with  a  wondrous  effort  she  sat  down  upon  the  bed, 
and  said, 

"  How  is  my  darling  ?    Is  her  head  all  in  a  twist  ?  " 

Nina  smiled,  a  rational,  knowing  smile,  and  answered, 

"  There  wasn't  the  least  bit  of  a  twist  in  it  till  Arthur 
told  me  about  that  in  the  graveyard,  and  then  it  began  to 
thump  so  loud,  but  with  you  sitting  here,  I'm  better. 
You  do  me  so  much  good,  Miggie.  Your  eyes  keep  me 
quiet.  Where  do  you  suppose  she  is  —  the  other  Miggie  ; 
and  how  did  she  get  out  of  the  coffin  ?  " 

u  Nina,"  said  Edith,  "  can  you  understand  me  if  I  tell 
you  a  story  about  a  little  girl  who  resembled  your  sister 
Miggie  ?  " 

Nina  liked  stories,  and  though  she  would  rather  have 
talked  of  the  real  Miggie,  she  expressed  a  willingness  to 
listen,  and  by  the  dim  candle  light  Edith  saw  that  the 
blue  eyes,  fixed  so  intently  upon  her,  still  retained  the 
comparatively  rational  expression  she  had  observed  when 
she  first  came  in.  Moving  a  little  nearer  to  her,  she  be- 
gan, 

"  A  great  many  years  ago,  nearly  eighteen,  we  will  say, 
a  beautiful  little  girl,  eight  years  old,  I  guess,  with  cm-Is 
like  yours,  waited  one  night  in  just  such  a  house  as  this,  for 
her  father,  who  had  been  long  in  Europe,  and  who  was  to 
bring  her  a  new  mother,  and  a  dear  baby  sister,  two  years 
old  or  thereabouts." 


THE    8ISTEES.  285 

"  Didn't  I  wear  my  blue  dress,  trimmed  with  white  ?  " 
Nina  asked  suddenly,  her  mind  seeming  to  have  followed 
Edith's,  and  grasped  the  meaning  of  what  she  heard. 

"  I  dare  say  you  did,"  Edith  answered  ;  "  at  all  events 
this  little  girl  was  very  beautiful  as  she  waited  in  the 
twilight  for  the  travellers." 

"  Call  the  little  girl  Nina,  please,  I'll  get  at  it  better 
then,"  was  the  next  interruption;  and  with  a  smile, Edith 
said, 

"Nina,  then,  waited  till  they  came — her  father,  her 
new  mother  Petrea,  and " 

"  Beautiful  Petrea,"  Nina  exclaimed,  "  la  belle  Petrea, 
black  hair  like  yours,  Miggie,  and  voice  like  the  soft  notes 
of  the  piano.  She  taught  me  a  heap  of  tunes  which  I 
never  have  forgotten,  but  tell  me  more  of  the  black-eyed 
baby,  Nina's  precious  sister.  I  did  hug  and  squeeze  her 
go  —  '•la  jolie  enfcmt'  Marie  called  her." 

Nina  seemed  to  have  taken  the  story  away  from  Edith, 
who,  when  she  ceased  speaking,  again  went  on  : 

"  Eloise  Marguerite  was  the  baby  sister's  name ;  Eloise, 
for  a  proud  aunt,  who,  after  they  came  home,  would  not 
suffer  them  to  call  her  so,  and  she  was  known  as  Marguer- 
ite, which  Nina  shortened  into  Miggie,  Nina  darling,"  and 
Edith  spoke  sadly  now.  "  Was  your  father  always  kind 
to  Petrea  ?  " 

There  was  a  look  in  Nina's  face  like  a  scared  bird,  and 
raising  her  hands  to  her  head,  she  said, 

"  Go  away,  old  buzzing.  Let  Nina  think  what  it  was 
they  used  to  do  —  pa  and  grandma  and  aunt  Eloise.  I 
know  now ;  grandma  and  auntie  were  proud  of  the  Ber- 
D  ard  blood,  they  said,  and  they  called  Petrea  vulgar,  and 
baby  sister  a  brat ;  and  pa — oh,  Miggie,  I  reckon  he  was 
na  ughty  to  the  new  mother.  He  had  a  buzz  in  his  head 
most  every  night,  not  like  mine,  but  a  buzz  that  he  got  at 
the  dinner  and  the  side-board,  where  they  kept  the  bot- 
tles, and  he  struck  her,  I  saw  him,  and  Marie,  she  waa 


286  DARKNESS   ANT>   DAYLIGHT. 

here,  too,  she  stepped  between  them,  and  called  him  a 
drunken,  deceitful  beast,  and  a  heap  more  in  French. 
Then  one  morning  when  he  was  gone  to  New  Orleans, 
and  wo  ild  come  home  pretty  soon,  mother  and  Marie  and 
Miggie  went  a  visiting  to  Tallahassee,  or  somewhere,  and 
they  never  came  back  again,  though  pa  went  after  them 
as  soon  as  he  got  home.  Why  didn't  they,  Miggie  ?  " 

"Petrea  was  very  unhappy  here,"  Edith  answered. 
"  Mr.  Bernard  abused  her,  as  did  his  haughty  mother,  and 
once  when  he  was  gone  Petrea  said  she  would  go  to  Talla- 
hassee to  see  a  lady  who  had  visited  her  at  Sunnybank. 
So  she  went  with  Marie,  and  Miggie,  then  three  years  old, 
but  did  not  stop  in  Tallahassee.  They  ran  away  to  New 
York,  where  Marie's  sister  lived.  Here  Petrea  was  taken 
bick  and  died,  making  Marie  promise  that  Miggie  should 
never  go  back  to  her  bad  father  and  his  proud  family. 
And  Marie,  who  hated  them  bitten/,  all  but  Nina,  kept 
her  word.  She  wrote  to  Sunnybank  that  both  were  dead, 
and  the  letter  was  forwarded  by  your  grandmother  to 
Mr.  Bernard,  who  had  gone  after  his  wife,  but  who  lay 
drunk  many  days  at  a  hotel.  The  letter  sobered  him,  and 
as  it  contained  Marie's  address,  he  found  her  at  last,  cry- 
ing bitterly  for  little  Miggie,  up  stairs  asleep,  but  he 
thought  her  in  the  coffin  with  her  mother.  Marie  said  so 
and  he  believed  her, bringing  the  bodies  back  to  Sunnybank, 
and  burying  them  beneath  the  magnolias." 

"And  built  a  great  marble  there  with  both  their 
names  cut  on  it,"  chimed  in  Nina,  fearful  lest  any  part  of 
the  story  should  be  omitted. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Edith,  "  he  raised  a  costly  monument 
to  their  memory ;  but  don't  you  wish  to  know  what  be- 
came of  Miggie  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  oh,  yes,  go  on,"  was  Nina's  answer;  and 
Edith  continued, 

"  Marie  was  too  poor  to  take  care  of  Miggie,  and  she 
jiut  her  in  the  Asylum." 


THE    SISTERS.  287 

"The  Asylum!"  Nina  fairly  screamed.  "Nir.a's  baby 
sister  in  the  nasty  old  Asylum.  No,  no,  it  ain't.  I  won't* 
I  shan't  listen  to  the  naughty  story,"  and  the  excited  girl 
covered  her  head  with  a  pillow. 

But  Edith  removed  it  gently,  and  with  a  few  loving 
words  quieted  the  little  lady,  who  said  again,  u  Go  on." 

"  It  was  the  Orphan  Asylum,  where  Nina's  sister  was 
pat,  but  they  didn't  call  her  Miggie.  Her  dying  mother 
gave  her  another  name  lest  the  father  should  some  time 
find  her,  and  there  in  that  great  noisy  city  Miggie  lived 
five  or  six  long  years,  gradually  forgetting  everything  in 
the  past,  everything  but  Marie's  name  and  the  airs  her 
mother  used  to  sing.  Miggie  had  a  taste  for  music,  and 
she  retained  the  plaintive  strains  sung  to  her  as  lullabys." 

"  I  know  them,  too,"  Nina  said,  beginning  to  hum  ona 
while  Edith  continued, 

"  After  a  time  Marie  went  back  to  France.  She  did 
not  mean  to  stay  long,  but  she  was  attacked  with  a  linger- 
ing, painful  sickness,  and  could  not  return  to  Miggie, 
whom  a  beautiful  lady  took  at  last  as  her  waiting-maid. 
Then  Arthur  came  —  Arthur,  a  boy  —  and  she  saw  Nina's 
picture." 

"  The  one  in  the  locket !  Nina  asked,  and  EOith  answer- 
ed, "  Yes,  'twas  in  a  locket,  and  it  puzzled  Miggie  till  she 
epoke  the  name,  but  thought  it  was  Arthur  who  told  her." 

"Wait,  wait,"  cried  Nina,  suddenly  striking  her  fore- 
head a  heavy  blow ;  "  I'm  getting  all  mixed  up,  and  some- 
thing flashes  across  my  brain  like  lightning.  I  reckon 
it's  a  streak  of  sense.  It  feels  like  it." 

Nina  was  right.  It  was  "  a  streak  of  sense,"  and  when 
Edith  again  resumed  her  story  the  crazy  girl  was  very 
e8L.ua.  and  quiet.  „ 

"All  er  a  time  this  Miggie  went  to  live  with  a  blind 
man  —  wich.  Richard,"  and  Edith's  hands  closed  tightly 
around  the  snowy  fingers,  which  crept  so  quickly  toward 
her.  a  She  grew  to  be  a  woman.  She  met  this  gel  len* 


288  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

halted  Nina,  b'»t  did  not  know  her,  though  Nina  called 
her  Miggie  always,  because  she  looked  like  Petrea,  and  the 
sound  to  Miggie  was  very  sweet,  like  music  heard  long 
ago.  They  loved  each  other  dearly,  and  to  Miggie  there 
was  nothing  in  the  whole  world  so  beautiful,  so  precious, 
as  poor  little  crazy  Nina,  Arthur'  Nina,  Dr.  Gris wold's 
Nina,  'Snow-Drop,'  Richard  called  her.  You  remem- 
ber Richard,  darling  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember  everything,"  and  Nina's  chest 
began  to  heave,  her  chin  to  quiver,  her  white  lips,  too,  bat 
still  she  shed  no  tear,  and  the  dry,  blue  eyes  seemed 
piercing  Edith's  very  soul  as  the  latter  continued,  rapidly, 
"  Nina  came  home  to  Florida ;  she  sent  for  Miggie,  and 
Miggie  came,  finding  Marie  who  told  her  all  —  told  her 
where  the  baby  was  —  and  the  real  Miggie  fell  on  her 
face,  thanking  the  good  Father  for  giving  her  the  sweetest, 
dearest  sister  a  mortal  ever  had.  Do  you  understand  me, 
darling?  Do  you  know  now  who  I  am  —  know  who 
Miggie  is  ?  " 

Edith's  voice  began  to  falter,  and  when  she  had  finished 
she  sat  gazing  at  the  fairy  form,  which  trembled  and 
writhed  a  moment  as  if  in  fearful  convulsions,  then  the 
struggling  ceased,  the  features  became  composed,  and 
raising  herself  in  bed  Nina  crept  closer  and  closer  to 
Edith,  her  lips  quivering  as  if  she  fain  would  speak  but 
had  not  the  power.  Slowly  the  little  hands  were  raised 
and  met  together  around  Edith's  neck;  nearer  and  nearer 
the  white  face  came  to  the  dark  glowing  one,  until 
breath  met  breath,  lip  met  lip,  golden  tresses  mixed  with 
riven  braids,  and  with  a  cry  which  made  the  very  rafters 
ring  and  went  echoing  far  out  into  the  darkness,  Nina 
fcaid,  "You  are — that  —  that  —  ba-baby — the  one  we 
thought  was  dead.  You  are  my  —  my  —  Nina's  —  oh, 
Higgle^  say  it  for  me  or  Nina'll  choke  to  death.  She  can't 
think  what  the  right  word  is  —  the  word  that  means 
and  poor  exhausted  Nina  fell  back  upon  the  pil- 


THE    SISTERS.  289 

low,  while  E'lith,  bending  over  her,  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"Miggie  meaus  sister,  darling;  your  sister;  do  you 
hear?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  and  again  the  wild,  glad  cry  went  ringing 
through  the  house,  as  Nina  threw  herself  a  second  time 
on  Edith's  bosom.  "  Sister,  sister,  Nina's  sister.  Nina's 
little  Miggie  once,  great  tall  Miggie  now, —  mine,  my  own 
—  nobody's  sister  but  mine.  Does  Arthur  know.  Ho, 
Arthur!  come  quick!  He  is  coming,  don't  you  hear  him. 
Arthur,  Arthur,  Miggie  is  mine.  My  precious  sister,"  anil 
Nina  Bernard  fell  back  fainting  just  as  Arthur  appeared 
in  the  room,  and  just  as  from  the  yard  without  .there 
went  up  from  the  congregated  blacks,  who  together  with 
fheir  master  and  Victor,  had  listened  to  Marie's  story, 
a  deafening  shout,  a  loud  huzza  for  "Miggie  Bernard," 
come  back  to  Sunnybank,  and  back  to  those  who  generously 
admitted  her  claim,  and  would  ere  long  acknowledge  hej 
as  their  mistress. 

The  few  particulars  which  Edith  had  omitted  in  har 
story  to  Nina  may,  perhaps,  be  better  told  now  than  at 
any  other  time.  Mr.  Bernard,  while  in  Paris,  had  been 
implicated  in  some  disgraceful  affair  which  rendered  him 
liable  to  arrest,  and  taking  the  name  of  Temple,  by  way 
of  avoiding  suspicion,  he  fled  to  Germany,  where  he  met 
and  married  the  beautiful  Swedish  Petrea,  who,  being 
young  and  weary  of  a  governess's  life,  was  the  more  easi 
ly  charmed  with  his  wealth  and  rather  gentlemanly 
address.  Because  it  suited  his  peculiar  nature  to  do  so, 
he  kept  his  real  name  from  her  until  they  reached  New 
York,  when,  fearful  of  meeting  with  some  of  his  acquain- 
tances there,  he  confessed  the  fraud,  laughing  at  it  as  a 
good  joke,  and  pronounced  Petrea  over  nice  for  saying  he 
had  done  wrong. 

The  year  which  followed  their  arrival  at  Sunnybank 
was  a  year  of  wretchedness  and  pining  home-sickness  on 
the  part  of  both  mistress  and  maid,  until  at  last  the  for 
18 


290  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

mer,  with  her  love  for  her  husband  changed  to  hate,  de- 
termined to  leave  him ;  and  in  his  absence,  planned  the 
visit  to  Tallahassee,  going  instead  to  New  York,  where  she 
died  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Jamieson,  Marie's  sister.  Even 
to  the  last  the  dread  of  her  hated  husband  prevailed,  and 
she  made  Man  3  swear  that  her  child  should  not  go  back 
to  him. 

"She  will  be  happier  to  be  poor,"  she  said,  "and  1 
would  rather  far  that  not  a  cent  of  the  Bernard  property 
should  ever  come  into  her  possession  than  that  she  should 
return  to  Sunnybank ;  but  sometime,  Marie,  when  she  is 
older,  you  may  tell  her  my  sad  story,  and  if  he  has  be- 
come a  better  man,  tell  her  who  she  is,  and  of  the  bright- 
haired  Nina.  They  will  love  each  other,  I  am  sure,  for 
Nina  possesses  nothing  in  common  with  her  father,  and 
lest  she  should  think  ill  of  me  for  having  married  him, 
tell  her  how  young,  how  inexperienced  I  was,  and  how 
he  deceived  me,  withholding  even  his  real  name." 

This  was  the  point  on  which  Petrea  dwelt  the  most, 
shrinking,  with  a  kind  of  pride,  from  having  it  generally 
known,  and  persisting  in  calling  herself  Temple  to  Mrs. 
Jamieson,  who  supposed  this  to  be  her  real  name,  inas- 
much as  Marie  had  called  her  so  on  the  occasion  of  her 
first  visit  after  landing  in  New  York  the  year  previous, 
and  before  the  deception  had  been  confessed. 

"  Don't  undeceive  her,"  Petrea  said  to  Marie,  who  did 
her  mistress's  bidding;  and  as  Mrs.  Jamieson  was  sick 
when  Mr.  Bernard  came,  she  did  not  see  him,  and  waa 
thus  effectually  kept  in  ignorance  that  Edith's  real  name 
was  Marguerite  Bernard,  else  she  had  divulged  it  to  Rich- 
ard, when  in  after  years  he  came  inquiring  for  her  parent" 
age. 

The  rest  the  reader  kno  <vs,  except,  ind  »ed,  how  Marie 
came  to  Sunnybank  a  secon  i  time,  and  why  she  had  so 
long  neglected  Edith.  She  was  with  her  mistress  in  Ger- 
many when  Richard  saved  the  child  from  drowning. 


THE    SI8TEBS.  291 

never  fbrgot  him,  and  when  from  her  sistei  she  .  earned 
that  Edith  was  with  him,  she  felt  that  interference  on  her 
part  was  unnecessary.  So  even  after  recovering  from  her 
illness  she  deferred  returning  to  America,  marrying,  at 
last,  and  living  in  an  humble  way  in  Paris,  where  she 
more  than  onse  saw  Mr.  Bernard  in  the  streets,  when  he 
was  there  with  Nina.  So  many  years  had  elapsed  since 
his  first  visit  that  he  had  no  fears  of  arrest,  and  openly  ap- 
peared in  public,  recognized  by  none  save  Marie,  who  nev- 
er could  forget  him.  Her  husband's  sudden  death  deter- 
mined her  upon  coming  to  America  and  looking  up  her 
child.  The  vessel  in  which  she  sailed  was  bound  for  New 
Orleans,  and,  with  a  desire  to  visit  Sunnybank  once  more, 
she  first  wended  her  way  thither,  expecting  to  find  it  in- 
hibited by  strangers ;  for,  from  an  American  paper,  which 
ii  :  lentally  fell  into  her  hands,  she  had  heard  of  Mr.  Ber- 
n  ini's  decease,  and  later  still  had  heard  from  one  who  was 
Nina's  waiting  maid  while  in  Paris,  that  she,  too,  was 
dead.  How  this  information  was  obtained  she  did 
not  know,  but  believing  it  to  be  authentic,  she  supposed 
strangers,  of  course,  were  now  the  tenants  of  Sunnybank ; 
and  anticipated  much  pleasure  in  restoring  to  the  so-called 
Edith  Hastings  her  rightful  heritage.  Great  then  was 
her  surprise  to  find  Nina  living,  and  when  she  heard  that 
Edith  was  soon  expected  in  Florida,  she  determined  to 
await  her  coming. 

This  was  the  story  she  told  to  Edith  and  also  to  the  ne- 
groes, many  of  whom  remembered  their  unfortunate  young 
mistress  and  her  beautiful  baby  Miggie  still ;  but  for  the 
missing  body  they  might  have  doubted  Marie's  word,  but 
that  was  proof  conclusive,  and  their  loud  hurrahs  for  Miss 
Miggie  Bernard  were  repeated  until  Nina  came  back  to 
consciousness,  smiling  as  she  heard  the  cry  and  remem- 
bered what  it  meant. 

"Go  to  them  —  let  them  see  you,  darling,"  she  said; 
and,  with  Arthur  as  her  escort,  Edith  went  out  into  th« 


292  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

midst  of  the  sable  group,  who  crowded  around  her,  with 
blessings,  prayers,  tears  and  howlings  indescribable,  while 
many  a  hard,  black  hand  grasped  hers,  as  negro  after 
negro  called  her  "  mistress,"  adding  some  word  of  praise, 
which  showed  how  proud  they  were  of  this  beautiful, 
queenly  scion  of  the  Bernard  stock,  which  they  had  feared 
would  perish  with  Nina.  Now  they  would  be  kept 
together  —  they  would  not  be  scattered  to  the  four  winds, 
and  one  old  negro  fell  on  his  knees,  kissing  Edith's  dress, 
and  crying, 

"  Cato  bresses  you  for  lettin'  his  bones  rot  on  de  ole 
plantation." 

Edith  was  perplexed,  for  to  her  the  discovery  had  only 
brought  sweet  images  of  sistership  with  Nina.  Money 
and  lands  formed  no  part  of  her  thoughts,  and  turning  to 
Arthur  she  asked  what  it  all  meant. 

Arthur  did  not  reply  at  once,  for  he  knew  he  held  that 
which  would  effectually  take  away  all  right  from  Edith. 
After  Nina  he  was  Mr.  Bernard's  chosen  heir,  but  not  for 
an  instant  did  he  waver  in  the  course  he  should  pursue, 
and  when  the  interview  was  ended  with  the  negroes,  and 
Edith  was  again  with  Nina,  he  excused  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  soon  returned,  bearing  in  his  hand  Mr.  Ber- 
nard's will,  which  he  bade  Edith  read. 

And  she  did  read  it,  feeling  intuitively  as  if  her  father 
from  the  grave  were  speaking  to  her,  the  injured  Petrea's 
child,  and  virtually  casting  her  aside. 

The  tears  gathered  slowly  in  her  eyes,  dropping  one  by 
one  upon  the  paper,  which  without  a  word  she  handed 
back  to  Arthur. 

«  What  is  it,  Arthur  boy  ?  "  Nina  asked.  "  What  is  it 
that  makes  Miggie  cry  ?  " 

Arthur  doubted  whether  either  of  the  girls  would  un- 
derstand him  if  he  entered  into  an  explanation  involving 
many  technical  terms,  but  he  would  do  the  best  he  could, 
and  sitting  down  by  Nina,  he  held  her  upon  his  bosom, 


THE    SISTEUS.  293 

While  he  said,  "  Does  my  little  girl  renvmber  the  time 
when  I  met  her  in  Boston,  years  ago,  and  Charlie  Hudson 
brought  me  papers  from  her  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Nina ;  "  there  was  one  that  had  in  it 
something  about  straight  jackets,  and  when  I  read  it,  I 
hit  my  head  against  the  bureau.  It's  never  been  quite 
right  since.  Is  this  the  letter  that  made  Miggie  cry  ?  " 

"No,"  returned  Arthur.  "This  is  your  father's  will, 
made  when  he  thought  there  was  no  Miggie.  In  it,  I  am 
his  heir  after  you,  and  Miggie  hasn't  a  cent." 

"  You  may  have  mine,  Miggie.  Ninall  give  you  hers, 
she  will,"  and  the  little  maiden  made  a  movement  toward 
Edith,  while  Arthur  continued, 

"  You  can't,  darling.  It's  mine  after  you ;"  and  this  he 
said,  not  to  inflict  fresh  pain  on  Edith,  but  to  try  Nina, 
and  hear  what  she  would  say. 

There  was  a  perplexed,  troubled  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
then,  drawing  his  head  close  to  her,  she  whispered, 

u  Couldn't  you  scratch  it  out,  just  as  Richard  did,  only 
he  didn't.  That's  a  good  boy.  He  will,  Miggie,"  and  she 
nodded  toward  Edith,  while  Artlmr  rejoined, 

"  Would  it  please  my  child-wife  very  much  to  have  me 
scratch  it  out  ?  " 

He  had  never  called  her  thus  before  Edith  until  now,  and 
he  stole  a  glance  at  her  to  witness  the  effect.  For  an  instant 
she  was  white  as  marble,  then  the  hot  blood  seemed  burst- 
ing from  the  small  round  spot  where  it  had  settled  in  her 
cheeks,  and  involuntarily  she  extended  her  hand  toward 
him  in  token  of  her  approval.  She  could  not  have  reas- 
sured him  better  than  by  this  simple  act,  and  still  retaining 
her  hand,  he  went  on, 

"  When  I  came  to  Florida,  after  Mr.  Bernard's  death, 
my  first  step  was  to  have  the  will  proved,  and  consequent- 
ly this  sheet  is  now  of  very  little  consequence ;  but  as 
you  both  will,  undoubtedly,  breathe  more  freely  if  every 
vestige  of  this  writing  la  removed,  I  will  destroy  it  at 


294  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

once,  and,  as  soon  as  possible,  take  the  legal  steps  for 
stating  Edith." 

Then  releasing  Edith's  hand,  Arthur  took  the  candle 
from  the  stand,  and  said  to  Nina, 

"  Have  you  strength  to  hold  it  ?  " 

u  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  grasping  it  eagerly,  while,  with  a 
band  far  steadier  than  hers,  Arthur  held  the  parchment  in 
the  flame,  watching  as  the  scorched,  brown  flakes  dropped 
upon  the  floor,  nor  sending  a  single  regret  after  the  im 
mense  fortune  he  was  giving  up. 

It  was  done  at  last.  The  will  lay  crisped  and  black- 
ened upon  the  carpet ;  Edith,  in  her  own  estimation  was 
reinstated  in  her  rights,  and  then,  as  if  demanding  some- 
thing for  the  sacrifice,  Arthur  turned  playfully  to  her,  and 
winding  his  arm  around  her  said, 

"  Kiss  me  once  as  a  sister,  for  such  you  are,  and  once  for 
giving  you  back  your  inheritance." 

The  kisses  Arthur  craved  were  given,  and  need  we  say 
returned!  Alas,  those  kisses!  How  they  burned  on 
Edith's  lips,  making  her  so  happy  —  and  how  they  blis- 
tered on  Arthur's  heart,  making  him  doubt  the  propriety 
of  having  given  or  received  them.  His  was  the  braver 
spirit  now.  He  had  buffeted  the  billow  with  a  mightier 
struggle  than  Edith  had  ever  known.  Around  his  head  a 
blacker,  fiercer  storm  had  blown  than  any  she  had  ever 
felt,  and  from  out  that  tumultuous  sea  of  despair  he  had 
come  a  firmer,  a  better  man,  with  strength  to  bear  the 
burden  imposed  upon  him.  Were  it  not  so  he  would  nev- 
er have  sent  for  Edith  Hastings  —  never  have  perilled  his 
soul  by  putting  himself  a  second  time  under  her  daily  in- 
fluence. But  he  felt  that  there  was  that  within  him  which 
would  make  him  choose  the  right,  make  him  cling  to  Ni- 
na, and  so  he  wrote  to  Edith,  meeting  her  when  she  came 
as  friend  meets  friend,  and  continually  thanking  Heaven 
which  enabled  him  to  hide  from  every  one  the  festered 
wound,  wlich  at  the  sound  of  her  familiar  voice  smarted 


THE    SISTERS.  295 

&ad  burned,  and  throbbed  until  his  soul  was  sick  and  faint 
with  pain. 

The  discovery  of  Edith's  parentage  filled  him  with  joy 
• — joy  for  Nina,  and  joy  because  an  opportunity  was  thus 
afforded  him  of  doing  an  act  unselfish  to  the  last  degree, 
for  never  for  a  single  moment  did  the  thought  force  itself 
upon  him  that  possibly  Edith  might  yet  be  his,  and  so  the 
property  come  back  to  him  again.  He  had  given  her  up, 
surrendered  her  entirely,  and  Richard's  interests  were  aa 
safe  with  him  as  his  gold  and  silver  could  have  been. 
Much  he  wished  he  knew  exactly  the  nature  of  her  feel- 
ings toward  her  betrothed,  but  he  would  not  so  much  as 
question  Victor,  who,  while  noticing  his  calmness  and  self- 
possession,  marvelled  greatly,  wondering  the  while  if  it 
were  possible  that  Arthur's  love  were  really  all  bestowed 
on  Nina.  It  would  seem  so,  from  the  constancy  with 
which  he  hung  over  her  pillow,  doing  for  her  the  thou- 
sand tender  offices,  which  none  but  a  devoted  husband 
could  do,  never  complaining,  never  tiring  even  when  she 
taxed  his  good  nature  to  its  utmost  limit,  growing  some- 
times so  unreasonable  and  peevish  that  even  Edith  won- 
dered at  his  forbearance. 

It  was  a  whim  of  Edith's  not  to  write  to  Richard  of 
her  newly-found  relationship.  She  would  rather  tell  it  to 
him  herself,  she  said,  and  in  her  first  letter,  she  merely 
mentioned  the  incidents  of  her  journey,  saying  she  reached 
Sunnybank  in  safety,  that  Nina  was  no  better,  that  Mr. 
St.  Claire  was  very  kind,  and  Victor  very  homesick,  while 
she  should  enjoy  herself  quite  well,  were  it  not  that  she 
knew  he  was  so  lonely  without  her.  .And  this  was  the 
letter  for  which  Richard  waited  so  anxiously,  feeling  when 
It  cnri¥3  almost  as  if  he  had  not  had  any,  and  still  exoner- 
ating his  singing  bird  from  blame,  by  saying  that  she  could 
i<<t  write  lovingly  to  him  so  long  as  she  knew  that  Mrs. 
Watson  must  be  the  interpreter  between  them. 

It  was  an  odd-looking  missive  which  he  sent  back,  and 


296  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Edith's  heart  ached  to  its  very  core  as  she  saw  the  un 
even  handwriting,  which  went  up  and  down,  the  lines 
running  into  and  over  each  other,  now  diagonally,  now  at 
right  angles,  and  again  darting  off  in  an  opposite  direction 
as  he  held  his  pencil  a  moment  in  his  fingers  and  then 
began  again.  Still  she  managed  to  decipher  it,  and  did 
not  lose  a  single  word  of  the  message  intended  for  Nina. 

"  Tell  little  Snowdrop  the  blind  man  sends  her  his  blesa» 
ing  and  his  love,  thinking  of  her  often  as  he  sits  here 
alone  these  gloomy  autumn  nights,  no  Edith,  no  Nina, 
nothing  but  lonesome  darkness.  Tell  her  that  he  praya 
she  may  get  well  again,  or  if  she  does  not,  that  she  may 
be  one  of  the  bright  angels  which  make  the  fields  of  Jor- 
dan so  beautiful  and  fair." 

This  letter  Edith  took  to  Nina  one  day,  when  Arthur 
and  Victor  had  gone  to  Tallahassee,  and  Mrs.  Lamotte 
was  too  busy  with  her  own  matters  to  interrupt  them. 
Nina  had  not  heard  of  the  engagement,  for  Arthur  could 
not  tell  her,  and  Edith  shrank  from  the  task  as  from  some- 
thing disagreeable.  Still  she  had  a  strong  desire  for  Ni- 
na to  know  how  irrevocably  she  was  bound  to  another, 
hoping  thus  to  prevent  the  unpleasant  allusions  frequent- 
ly made  to  herself  and  Arthur.  The  excitement  of  find- 
ing a  sister  in  Miggie,  had  in  a  measure  overturned  Nina's 
reason  again,  and  for  many  days  after  the  disclosure  she 
was  more  than  usually  wild,  talking  at  random  of  the  most 
absurd  things,  but  never  for  a  moment  losing  sight  of  the 
fact  that  Edith  was  her  sister.  This  seemed  to  be  the  one 
single  clear  point  from  which  her  confused  ideas  radiated, 
and  the  love  she  bore  her  sister  was  strong  enough  to 
clear  away  the  tangled  web  of  thought  and  bring  her  at 
last  to  a  calmer,  more  natural  state  of  mind.  There  were 
hours  in  which  no  one  would  suspect  her  of  insanity,  sa\  e 
that  as  she  talked  childish,  and  even  meaningless  expressions 
\7ere  mingled  with  what  she  said,  showing  that  the  woof 
of  her  intellect  was  defective  still,  and  in  such  a  condition  as 


THE    SISTERS.  297 

this  Edith  .found  her  that  clay  when,  with  Richard  s  let tei 
in  her  hand,  she  seated  herself  upon  the  foot  of  the  bed 
and  said,  "  I  heard  from  Richard  last  night.  You  reraem« 
her  him,  darling  ?  " 

*  Yes,  he  made  me  Arthur's  wife ;  but  I  wish  he  hadn't^ 
for  then  you  would  not  look  so  white  and  sorry." 

u  Never  mind  that,"  returned  Edith,  "but  listen  to  the 
message  he  sent  his  little  Snowdrop,"  and  she  read  what 
Richard  had  written  to  Nina. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  one  of  those  bright  angels,"  Nina  said, 
mournfully,  when  Edith  finished  reading ;  "  but,  Miggie, 
Nina's  so  bad.  I  can  think  about  it  this  morning,  for  the 
buzzing  in  my  head  is  very  faint,  and  I  don't  get  things 
much  twisted,  I  reckon.  I've  been  bad  to  Arthur  a  heap 
of  times,  and  he  was  never  anything  but  kind  to  me.  I 
never  saw  a  frown  on  his  face  or  heard  an  impatient  word, 
only  that  sorry  look,  and  that  voice  so  sad." 

"  Don't,  Nina,  don't. 

**  Even  Dr.  Griswold  was  not  patient  as  Arthur.  He  was 
quicker  like,  and  his  face  would  grow  so  red.  He  used  to 
shake  me  hard,  and  once  he  raised  his  hand,  but  Arthur 
caught  it  quick  and  said  '  No,  Griswold,  not  that — not  strike 
Nina,'  and  I  was  tearing  Arthur's  hair  out  by  handfuls, 
too.  That's  when  I  bit  him.  I  told  you  once." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Edith  replied;  "but  I  wish  to  talk  of 
something  besides  Arthur,  now.  Are  you  sure  you  can 
understand  me  ?  " 

tt  Yes,  it  only  buzzed  like  a  honey-bee,  right  in  here,"  and 
N~ina  touched  the  top  of  her  head,  while  Edith  continued. 

"  Did  Arthur  ever  tell  you  who  it  was  that  fell  into  the 
Rhine?" 

tt  Yes,  Mrs.  Atherton  wrote,  and  I  cried  so  hard,  but  he 
did  not  say  your  name  was  Eloise,  or  I  should  have  guessed 
you  were  Miggie,  crazy  as  I  am." 

"  Possibly  Grace  did  not  so  write  to  him,"  returned  Edith 
*  but  let  me  tell  you  of  Edith  Hustings  as  she  used  to  b* 


298  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

when  a  child ; "  and  with  the  blue  eyes  of  Nina  fixed  upon 
her,  Edith  narrated  that  portion  of  her  history  already 
known  to  the  reader,  dwelling  long  upon  Richard's  good- 
ness, and  thus  seeking  to  prepare  her  sister  for  the  last,  the 
most  important  part  of  all. 

"  After  Arthur  deceived  me  so,"  she  said, "  I  thought  my 
heart  would  never  cease  to  ache,  and  it  never  has." 

"  But  it  will  —  it  will,"  cried  Nina,  raising  herself  in  bed. 
"  When  I'm  gone,  it  will  all  come  right.  I  pray  so  every 
day,  though  it's  hard  to  do  it  sometimes  now  I  know  you 
are  my  sister.  It  would  be  so  nice  to  live  with  you  and 
Arthur,  and  I  love  you  so  much.  You  can't  begin  to 
know,"  and  the  impulsive  girl  fell  forward  on  Edith's 
"bosom  sobbing  impetuously,  "I  love  you  so  much,  so 
much,  thaVft  makes  it  harder  to  die ;  but  I  must,  and  when 
the  little  snow-birds  come  back  to  the  rose  bushes  beneath 
the  windows  of  Grassy  Spring  a  great  ways  oflj  the  hands 
that  used  to  feed  them  with  crumbs  will  be  laid  away  where 
they'll  never  tear  Arthur  boy's  hair  any  more.  Oh,  I  wish 
they  never  had  —  I  wish  they  never  had,"  and  sob  after  sob 
shook  Nina's  delicate  frame  as  she  gave  vent  to  her  sorrow 
for  the  trial  she  had  been  to  Arthur. 

Edith  attempted  to  comfort  her  by  saying,  "  He  has 
surely  forgiven  you,  darling;  and  Nina,  please  don't  talk  so 
much  of  dying.  Arthur  and  I  both  hope  you  will  live  yet 
many  years." 

M  Yes,  Arthur  does,"  Nina  rejoined  quickly.  "  I  heard 
him  praying  so  one  night  when  he  thought  I  was  asleep  — 
I  make  believe  half  of  the  time,  so  as  to  hear  what  he  says 
when  he  kneels  down  over  in  that  corner ;  and  once,  Mig- 
gte,  a  great  while  ago,  it  was  nothing  but  one  dreadful 
groa?i,  except  when  he  said,  '  God  help  me  in  this  my 
darkest  hour,  and  give  me  strength  to  drink  this  cup.' 
But  there  wasn't  any  cup  there  for  I  peeked,  thinking  maybe 
he'd  got  some  of  my  nasty  medicine,  and  it  wasn't  dark,  ei 
ther,  for  there  were  two  candles  on  the  mantel  and  they 


THfi    SISTERS.  299 

shone  on  Arthur's  face,  which  looked  to  me  as  if  it  were  a 
thousand  years  old.  Then  he  whispered,  'Edith,  Edith,' 
and  the  sound  was  so  like  a  wail  that  I  felt  my  blood  grow- 
ing cold.  Didn't  you  hear  him,  Miggie,  way  off  to  the 
-north  ;  didn't  you  hear  him  call  ?  God  did,  and  helped  him, 
I  reckon,  for  he  got  up  and  came  and  bent  over  me,  kissing 
me  so  much,  and  whispering, '  My  wife,  my  Nina.'  It  was 
sweet  to  be  so  kissed,  and  I  fell  away  to  sleep ;  bui  Arthur 
must  have  knelt  beside  me  the  livelong  night,- for  every 
time  I  moved  I  felt  his  hand  clasp  mine.  The  next  day 
he  told  me  that  Richard  saved  you  from  the  river,  and  his 
lips  quivered  as  if  he  feared  you  were  really  lost." 

Alas !  Nina  had  come  nearer  the  truth  than  she  supposed, 
and  Edith  involuntarily  echoed  her  oft-repeated  words, 
M  Poor  Arthur,"  for  she  knew  now  what  had  jtfibeded  that 
cry  of  more  than-  mortal  anguish  which  Arthur  sent  to 
Grace  after  hearing  fh-st  of  the  engagement. 

"Nina,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "before  that 
time  of  which  you  speak,  there  came  a  night  of  grief  to 
me  —  a  night  when  I  wished  that  I  might  die,  because 
Richard  asked  me  to  be  his  wife  —  me,  who  looked  upon 
him  as  my  father  rather  than  a  husband.  I  can't  tell  you 
what  he  said  to  me,  but  it  was  very  touching,  very  sadj 
and  my  heart  ached  so  much  for  the  poor  blind  man." 

"But  you  didn't  tell  him  yes,"  interrupted  Nina, 
tt  You  couldn't.  You  didn't  love  him.  It's  wicked  to  act 
a  lie  Miggie  —  as  wicked  as  'tis  to  tell  one.  Say  you  told 
him  no;  it  chokes  me  just  to  think  of  it." 

"  Nina,"  and  Edith's  voice  was  low  and  earnest  in  its 
tone,  "  I  thought  about  it  four  whole  weeks  and  at  last  I 
went  to  Richard  and  said,  '  I  will  be  your  wife.'  I  have 
never  taken  it  back.  I  am  engaged  to  him,  and  I  shall 
keep  my  word.  Were  it  not  that  you  sent  foi  me  I 
should  have  been  his  bride  ere  this.  I  shall  be  his  Vide 
on  New  Year's  night." 

Edith  spoke  rapidly,  as  if  anxious  to  have  the  task  com* 


800  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

pleted,  and  when  at  last  it  was  done,  she  felt  that  lie? 
strength  was  leaving  her,  so  great  had  been  the  effort  with 
which  she  told  her  story  to  Nina.  Gradually  as  she 
talked  Nina  had  crept  away  from  her,  and  sitting  upright 
in  bed,  stared  at  her  fixedly,  her  face  for  once  putting  on 
the  mature  dignity  of  her  years,  and  seeming  older  than 
Edith's.  Then  the  clear-minded,  rational  Nina  spoke  out, 
M  Miggie  Bernard,  were  you  ten  thousand  times  engaged 
to  Richard,  it  shall  not  -be.  You  must  not  stain  your  soul 
with  a  perjured  vow,  and  you  would,  were  this  sacrifice 
to  be.  Your  lips  would  say  *  I  love,'  but  your  heart 
would  belie  the  words,  and  God's  curse  will  rest  upon 
you  if  you  do  Richard  this  cruel  wrong.  He  does  not 
deserve  that  you  should  deal  so  treacherously  with  him, 
and  Miggie^  I  would  far  rather  you  were  lying  in  the 
grave-yard  over  yonder,  than  to  do  this  great  wickedness. 
You  must  not,  you  shall  not,"  and  in  the  eyes  of  violet 
blue  there  was  an  expression  beneath  which  the  stronger 
eyes  of  black  quailed  as  they  had  done  once  before,  when 
delirium  had  set  its  mark  upon  them. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Edith  persisted  in  saying  she  did,  or 
at  least  should  love  Richard  as  he  deserved.  Nina  was 
not  to  be  convinced,  and  at  last,  in  self-defence,  Edith  broke 
out  bitterly  against  Arthur  as  the  immediate  cause  of  her 
sufferings.  Had  he  not  been  faithless  to  his  marriage 
vow,  and  might  she  not  keep  hers  quite  as  well  as  he 
kept  his. 

Nina  was  very  white,  and  the  swollen  veins  stood  out 
full  upon  her  forehead  as  she  lay  panting  on  her  pillow, 
but  the  eyes  never  for  an  instant  left  Edith's,  as  she 
replied,  "  Arthur  was  in  fault,  Miggie,  greatly  in  fault,  but 
there  was  much  to  excuse  his  error.  He  was  so  young ; 
not  as  old  as  you,  Miggie,  and  Sarah  "Warren  urged  us  on. 
I  knew  aiterward  why  she  did  it,  too.  She  is  dead 
now,  and  I  would  not  speak  against  her  were  it  not 
necessary,  but,  Miggie,  she  wanted  Dr.  Griswold,  tnd  shi 


THE    SISTERS.  801 

fancied  he  liked  me,  so  she  would  remove  me  from  he* 
path ;  and  she  did.  She  worked  upon  my  love  of  the 
romantic,  and  Arthur's  impulsive  nature,  until  she  per- 
suaded us  to  run  away.  While  we  were  on  the  road, 
Arthur  whispered  to  me,  '  Let's  go  back,'  but  I  said,  '  No,' 
wLue  Sarah,  who  overheard  him,  sneered  at  him  as  cow- 
ardly, and  we  went  on.  Then  father  took  me  ofi'to  Paris, 
and  I  dared  not  tell  him,  he  was  so  dreadful  when  he  v,  aa 
angry ;  and  then  I  loved  Charlie  Hudson,  and  loved  him 
the  more  because  I  knew  I  musn't." 

The  mature  expression  was  passing  rapidly  from  Nina's 
face,  and  the  child-like  one  returning  in  its  stead  as  she 
continued, 

"  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  Arthur,  and  before  I  came 
home  I  determined  never  to  live  with  him  as  his  wife. 
I  didn't  know  then  about  this  buzzing  in  my  head,  and 
the  first  thing  I  did  when  alone  with  him  at  the  Revere 
House  was  to  go  down  on  my  knees  and  beg  of  him  not 
to  make  me  keep  my  vow.  I  told  him  I  loved  Charlio 
best,  and  he  talked  so  good  to  me  —  said  maybe  I'd  get 
over  it,  and  all  that.  Then  he  read  pa's  letter,  which 
told  what  I  would  some  time  be,  and  he  didn't  ask  me 
after  that  to  live  with  him,  but  when  he  came  from 
Florida  and  found  me  so  dreadful,  he  put  his  arms  around 
me,  loving-like,  and  cried,  while  I  raved  like  a  fury  and 
snapped  at  him  like  a  dog.  You  see  the  buzzing  was  like 
a  great  noisy  factoiy  then,  and  Nina  didn't  know  what 
she  was  doing,  she  hated  him  so,  and  the  more  he  tried 
to  please  her  the  more  she  hated  him.  Then,  when  I 
tame  to  my  senses  enough  to  think  I  did  not  want  our 
marriaga  known,  I  made  him  promise  not  to  tell,  in 
Florida  or  any  where,  so  he  didn't,  and  the  weary  years 
wore  on  with  people  thinking  I  was  his  ward.  D:.  Gris- 
wold  was  always  kind  and  good,  but  not  quite  as  patient 
and  woman-like  as  Arthur.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  a  dif- 
ferent feeling  towaid  nie,  acd  required  more  of  me,  for  h« 


802  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

was  not  as  gentle  when  I  tore  as  Arthur  was.  I  was  ter. 
ribly  afraid  of  him,  though,  and  after  a  while  he  did  me 
good.  The  buzzing  wasn't  bigger  than  a  mill-wheel,  and 
it  creaked  just  as  a  big  wheel  does  when  there  is  no  wa- 
ter to  carry  it.  It  was  crying  that  I  wanted.  I  had  not 
wept  in  three  years,  but  the  sight  of  you  touched  a  spring 
somewhere  and  the  waters  poured  like  a  flood,  turning  the 
vheel  without  that  grating  noise  that  used  to  drive  me 
juad,  and  after  that  I  never  tore  but  once.  He  didn't  tell 
you,  because  I  asked  him  not,  but  I  scratched  him,  struck 
Phil  Us,  burned  up  his  best  coat,  broke  the  mirror,  and  oh, 
you  don't  know  how  I  did  cut  up !  Then  the  pain  went 
away  and  has  never  come  back  like  that.  Sometimes  I 
can  see  that  it  was  wrong  for  him  to  love  you,  and  then 
again  I  can't,  but  if  it  was,  he  has  repented  so  bitterly  of 
it  since.  He  would  not  do  it  now.  He  needn't  have  told 
you,  either,  for  everybody  was  dead,  and  it  never  would 
have  come  back  to  me  if  he  hadn't  said  it  in  the  Deering 
Woods.  Don't  you  see  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  cried  Edith,  her  tears  dropping  fast  into 
her  lap.  "  I  sec  that  I  tempted  him  to  sin.  Oh,  Arthur, 
I  am  most  to  blame  —  most  to  blame." 

"And  you  will  give  up  Richard,  won't  you?"  Nina 
said.  "  Arthur  is  just  as  good,  just  as  noble,  just  as  true, 
and  better  too,  it  may  be,  for  he  has  passed  through  a 
fiercer  fire  than  Richard  ever  did.  Will  you  give  up 
Richard?" 

"  I  can't,"  and  Edith  shook  her  head.  "  The  chords  by 
which  he  holds  me  are  like  bands  of  steel,  and  cannot  be 
sundered.  I  promised  solemnly  that  by  no  word  or  deed 
irould  I  seek  to  break  our  engagement,  and  I  dare  not- 
I  should  not  be  happy  if  I  did." 

And  this  was  all  Nina  could  wring  from  her,  although 
she  labored  for  many  hours,  sometimes  rationally,  some- 
times otherwise,  but  always  with  an  earnest  simplicity 
which  showed  how  pure  were  her  motives,  and  how  great 
her  love  for  Edith. 


ABTHUB   AND   NINA.  808 


CHAPTER 

AKTHUE   AND   NINA. 

It  was  rather  late  in  the  evening  when  Arthur  returned, 
looking  more  than  usually  pale  and  weary,  and  still  there 
was  about  him  an  air  of  playful  pleasantry,  such  as  there 
used  to  be,  when  Edith  first  knew  him.  During  the  long 
ride  to  Tallahassee,  Victor,  either  from  accident  or  design 
touched  upon  the  expected  marriage  of  his  master,  and 
although  Arthur  would  not  ask  a  single  question,  he  was 
a  deeply-interested  auditor,  and  listened  intently,  while 
Victor  told  him  much  which  had  transpired  between  him- 
self and  Edith,  saying  that  unless  some  influence  stronger 
than  any  he  or  Grace  could  exert  were  thrown  around 
her,  she  would  keep  her  vow  to  Richard,  even  though  she 
died  in  keeping  it. 

"  Girls  like  Edith  Hastings  do  not  die  easily,"  was  Ar- 
thur's only  comment,  and  Victor  half  wished  he  had  kept 
his  own  counsel  and  never  attempted  to  meddle  in  a  love 
affair. 

But  if  Arthur  said  nothing,  he  thought  the  more,  and 
the  warfare  within  was  not  the  less  severe,  because  bis 
face  was  so  unruffled  and  his  manner  so  composed. 
Thought,  intense  and  almost  bewildering,  was  busy  at 
work,  and  ere  the  day  was  done,  he  had  resolved  that  he 
would  help  Edith  if  all  else  forsook  her.  He  would  not 
throw  one  single  obstacle  across  her  pathway.  He  would 
make  the  sacrifice  easier  for  her,  even  if  to  do  it,  he  suf- 
fered her  to  think  that  his  own  love  had  waned.  Nothing 
could  more*  effectually  cure  her,  and  believing  that  she 
might  be  happy  with  Richard  if  she  did  not  love  another, 
he  determined  to  measure  every  word  and  act  so  as  to 
impress  her  with  the  conviction  that  though  she  was  dear 


304  DAEKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

to  him  as  a  sister  and  friend,  he  had  struggled  with  hia 
affection  for  her  and  overcome  it.  It  would  be  a  living 
death  to  do  this,  he  knew  —  to  act  so  contrary  to  what  he 
felt,  but  it  was  meet  that  he  should  suffer,  and  when  at 
last  he  was  left  alone  —  when  both  were  lost  to  him  for- 
ever —  Edith  and  his  child- wife  Nina,  he  woull  go  away 
across  the  sea,  and  lose,  if  possible,  in  foreign  lands,  all 
remembrance  of  the  past.  And  this  it  was  that  made 
him  seem  so  cheerful  when  he  came  in  that  night,  calling 
Edith  "  little  sister,"  winding  his  arm  around  Nina,  kiss- 
ing her  white  face,  asking  if  she  had  missed  him  any,  if 
she  were  glad  to  have  him  back,  and  how  she  and  Miggie 
had  busied  themselves  during  the  day. 

"  We  talked  of  you,  Arthur,  and  of  Richard,"  Nina  said. 
"  Miggie  has  promised  to  marry  him !  Did  you  know 
it?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  was  Arthur's  reply ;  "  and  there  is  no 
person  in  the  world  to  whom  I  would  sooner  give  her  than 
to  Richard,  for  I  know  he  will  leave  nothing  undone  to 
make  her  happy." 

There  was  no  tremor  in  Arthur's  voice,  and  Nina  little 
guessed  how  much  it  cost  him  thus  to  speak,  with  Edith 
sitting  near.  Looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  startled,  per- 
plexed expression,  she  said,  "  I  did  not  expect  this,  Arthur 
boy.  I  thought  you  loved  Miggie." 

"Nina,  please  don't,"  and  Edith  spoke  entreatingly,  but 
Nina  answered  pettishly,  "  I  ain't  going  to  please,  for 
everything  has  got  upside  down.  It's  all  going  wrong,  and 
it  won't  make  a  speck  of  difference,  as  I  see,  whether  I 
die  or  not." 

'•  I  think  I'd  try  to  live  then,"  Arthur  said,  laughingly, 
while  Edith  hailed  the  appearance  of  Marie  as  something 
which  would  put  a  restraint  upon  Nina. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Edith  should  take  Arthur's 
place  in  the  sick  room  that  night,  but  Nina  suddenly 
changed  her  mind,  insisting  that  Arthur  should  sleep  there 
as  usual. 


ABTHUB   AND   XINA.  305 

M  There  s  a  heap  of  things  I  musl  tell  you,"  she  whispered 
to  him ;  "  and  my  head  is  clearer  when  it's  darker  and  thf 
candles  are  on  the  stand." 

So  Edith  retired  to  her  own  room,  and  after  a  time  Ar- 
thur was  alone  with  Nina.  He  was  very  tired,  but  at  her 
request  he  sat  down  beside  her,  where  she  could  look  into 
hi?  face  and  see,  as  she  said,  if  he  answered  her  for  true. 
A1,  first  it  was  of  herself  she  spoke — herself,  as  she  used 
to  be, 

"  I  remember  so  well,"  she  said  u  when  you  called  me 
your  Florida  rose,  and  asked  for  one  of  my  curls.  That 
was  long  ago,  and  there  have  been  years  of  darkness  since, 
but  the  clouds  are  breaking  now  —  daylight  is  coming  up, 
or  rather  Nina  is  going  out  into  the  daylight,  where  there 
is  no  more  buzzing,  no  more  headache.  Will  I  be  crazy  in 
Heaven,  think  ?  " 

"  No,  darling,  no,"  and  Arthur  changed  his  seat  from 
the  chair  to  the  bed,  where  he  could  be  nearer  to  the  littlfl 
girl,  who  continued, 

"  I've  thought  these  many  weeks  how  good  you've  been 
to  me  —  how  happy  you  have  made  my  last  days,  while  I 
have  been  so  bad  to  you,  but  you  musn't  remember  it 
against  me,  Arthur  boy,  when  I'm  dead  and  there  isn't  any 
naughty  Nina  anywhere,  neither  at  the  Asylum,  nor  Grassy 
Spring,  nor  here  in  bed,  nothing  but  a  teenty  grave,  out  in 
the  yard,  with  the  flowers  growing  on  ft,  I  say  you  must 
not  remember  the  wicked  things  I've  done,  for  it  wasn't 
the  Nina  who  talks  to  you  now.  It  was  the  buzzing  Nina 
who  tore  your  hair,  and  scratched  your  face,  and  bit  your 
arm.  Oh,  Arthur,  Nina's  so  sorry  now ;  but  you  musn'i 
lay  it  up  against  me." 

"  K  o,  my  darling,  God  forbid  that  I,  who  have  wronged 
you  so  terribly,  should  remember  aught  against  you,"  and 
Arthur  kissed  the  slender  hands  which  had  done  him  so 
much  mischief. 

They  were  harmless  now,  those  little  waxen  hands,  and 
they  caressed  Arthur's  face  and  hair  as  Nina  went  on. 


806  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

"  Arthur  boy,  there's  one  question  I  must  ask  you,  now 
there's  nobody  to  hear,  and  you  will  tell  me  truly.  Do 
you  love  me  any  —  love  me  differently  from  what  you  did 
when  I  was  in  the  Asylum,  and  if  the  buzzing  all  was  gone, 
and  never  could  come  back,  would  you  really  make  me 
your  wife  just  as  other  husbands  do  —  would  you  let  me 
git  upon  your  knee,  and  not  wish  it  was  some  one  else,  and 
in  the  night  when  you  woke  up  and  felt  me  close  to  you 
would  you  be  glad  thinking  it  was  Nina  ?  And  when  you 
had  been  on  a  great  long  journey,  and  were  coming  home, 
would  the  smoke  from  the  chimney  look  handsomer  to  you 
because  you  knew  it  was  Nina  waiting  for  you  by  the 
hearth-stone,  and  keeping  up  the  fire  ?  Don't  tell  me  a 
falsehood,  for  I'll  forgive  you,  if  you  answer  no." 

"Yes,  Nina,  yes.  I  would  gladly  take  you  as  my  wife 
if  it  could  be.  My  broken  lily  is  very  precious  to  me 
now,  far  more  so  than  she  used  to  be.  The  right  love  for 
her  began  to  grow  the  moment  I  confessed  she  was  my 
wife,  and  when  she's  gone,  Arthur  will  be  so  lonely." 

"  Will  you,  Arthur  boy  ?  Will  you,  as  true  as  you  live 
and  breathe,  miss  poor,  buzzing  Nina  ?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,  so 
glad,"  and  the  great  tears  dimmed  the  brightness  of  the 
blue  eyes,  which  looked  up  so  confidingly  at  Arthur.  I, 
too,  have  loved  you  a  heap  ;  not  exactly  as  I  loved  Charlie 
Hudson,  I  reckon,  but  the  knowing  you  are  my  husband, 
makes  Nina  feel  kind  of  nice,  and  I  want  you  to  love  me 
some  —  miss  me  some  —  mourn  for  me  some,  and  then, 
Arthur,  Nina  wants  you  to  marry  Miggie.  There  is  no 
buzzing ;  no  twist  in  her  head.  It  will  rest  as  quietly  on 
your  bosom  where  mine  has  never  lain,  not  as  hers  will, 
I  mean,  and  you  both  will  be  so  happy  at  last  —  happy  in 
knowing  that  Nina  has  gone  out  into  the  eternal  daylight, 
where  she  would  rather  be.  You'll  do  it,  Arthur ;  she 
must  not  marry  Richard,  and  you  must  speak  to  her  quick, 
before  she  goes  home,  so  as  to  stop  it,  for  New  Year's  if 
the  time.  Will  you,  Arthur?" 


ARTHUR   AND   NINA.  807 

There  was  an  instant  of  silence  in  the  room  —  Nina 
waiting  for  Arthur  to  speak,  and  Arthur  m  istering  Til  his 
Btiength  to  answer  her  as  he  felt  he  must. 

"My  darling,"  laying  his  face  down  Upon  her  aeck 
among  her  yellow  curls,  "  I  shall  never  call  another  by  the 
dear  name  I  call  you  now,  my  wife." 

"Oh,  Arthur,"  and  Nina's  cheeks  flushed  with  indignant 
surprise,  that  he,  too,  should  prove  refractory.  Everything 
indeed,  was  getting  upside  down.  "  Why  not?  "  she  asked. 
*  Don't  you  love  Miggie?  " 

"  Yes,  very,  very  dearly!  but  it  is  too  much  to  hope 
that  she  will  ever  be  mine.  I  do  not  deserve  it.  You 
ask  me  my  forgiveness,  Nina.  Alas !  alas !  I  have  tenfold 
more  need  of  yours.  It  did  not  matter  that  we  both 
wearied  of  our  marriage  vows,  made  when  we  were  chil- 
dren — did  not  matter  that  you  are  crazy  —  I  had  no  right 
to  love  another. 

"  But  you  have  paid  for  it  all  a  thousand  times ! "  inter- 
rupted Nina.  You  are  a  better  Arthur  than  you  were, 
before,  and  Nina  never  could  see  the  wrong  in  your  pre- 
ferring beautiful,  sensible  Miggie,  to  crazy,  scratching,  bit- 
ing, teasing  Nina,  even  if  Richard  had  said  over  a  few 
words,  of  which  neither  of  us  understood  the  meaning,  or 
what  it  involved,  this  taking  for  better  or  worse.  It  sure- 
ly cannot  be  wrong  to  marry  Miggie  when  I'm  gone,  and 
you  will,  Arthur,  you  will ! " 

"  No,  Nina,  no !  I  should  be  adding  sin  to  sin  did  I  seek 
to  change  her  decision,  and  so  wrong  the  noble  Richard. 
His  is  the  first,  best  claim.  I  will  not  interfere.  Miggie 
mast  keep  her  word  uninfluenced  by  me.  I  shall  not  raise 
my  voice  against  it." 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  Arthur !  "  Nina  cried,  clasping  her  handi 
together ;  "Miggie  does  not  love  him,  and  you  surely  know 
the  misery  of  a  marriage  without  love.  It  must  not  be  ! 
It  shall  not  be !  You  can  save  Miggie,  and  you  must ! " 

Every  word  was  fainter  than  the  preceding,  and,  when  the 


308  DAEKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

last  was  uttered,  Nina's  head  dropped  from  Arthur's  shoul- 
der to  the  pillow,_and  he  saw  a  pinkish  stream  issuing  from 
her  lips.  A  small  blood  vessel  had  been  ruptured,  and 
Arthur,  who  knew  the  danger,  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
mouth  as  he  saw  her  about  to  speak,  bidding  her  be  quiet 
if  she  would  not  die  at  once. 

Death,  however  long  and  even  anxiously  expected  'JL  on- 
welcome  at  the  last,  and  Nina  shrank  from  its  near  ap- 
proach, laying  very  still,  while  Arthur  summoned  aid.  Only 
once  she  spoke,  and  then  she  whispered,  "  Miggie,"  thus 
intimating  that  she  would  have  her  called.  In  much  alann 
Edith  came,  trembling  when  she  saw  the  fearful  change 
which  had  passed  over  Nina,  whose  blue  eyes  followed 
her  movements  intently,  turning  often  from  her  to  Arthur 
as  if  they  fain  would  utter  what  was  in  her  mind.  But 
not  then  was  Nina  St.  Claire  to  die.  Many  days  and  nights 
were  yet  appointed  her,  and  Arthur  and  Edith  watched 
her  with  the  tenderest  care  ;  only  these  two,  for  so  Nina 
would  have  it.  Holding  their  hands  in  hers  she  would 
gaze  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  wistful,  pleading  look, 
which,  far  better  than  words,  told  what  she  would  say 
were  it  permitted  her  to  speak,  but  in  the  deep  brown 
eyes  of  Arthur,  she  read  always  the  same  answer,  while 
Edith's  would  often  fill  with  tears  as  she  glanced  timidly 
at  the  apparently  cold,  silent  man,  who,  she  verily  be- 
lieved, had  ceased  to  love  her. 

But  Nina  knew  better.  Clouded  as  was  her  reason,  she 
penetrated  the  mask  he  wore,  and  saw  where  the  turbu- 
lent waters  surged  around  him,  while  with  an  iron  will 
and  a  brave  heart  he  contended  with  the  angry  waves, 
and  so  outrode  the  storm.  And  as  she  watched  them  day 
after  day,  the  purpose  grew  strong  within  her  that  if  it, 
were  possible  the  marriage  of  Edith  and  Richard  should 
be  prevented,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  talk  she 
broached  the  subject  to  them  both. 

"Stay,  Miggie,"  she  said  to  Edith,  who  was  stealing 


A-ETHUB   AJTO   Nnfi-.  809 


from  the  room.  "  Hear  me  this  once.  You  are  t  igether 
now,  you  and  Arthur." 

"  X  ina,"  said  the  latter,  pitying  Edith's  agitation,  "  You 
will  spare  us  both  much  pain  if  you  never  allude  again  to 
what  under  other  circumstances  might  have  been." 

u  But  I  must,"  cried  Nina.  "  Oh,  Arthur,  why  won't 
you  go  to  Richard  and  tell  him  all  about  it?  " 

"  Because  it  would  be  wrong,"  was  Arthur's  answer,  and 
(hen  Nina  turned  to  Edith,  "Why  won't  you,  Miggie?" 

"  Because  I  have  solemnly  promised  that  I  would  not," 
was  her  reply. 

And  Nina  rejoined,  "  Then  I  shall  write.  He  loved  lit- 
tle Snow  Drt  p.  He'll  heed  what  she  says  when  she  speaks 
from  the  grave.  I'll  send  him  a  letter." 

"  Who'll  take  it  or  read  it  to  him  if  you  do?"  Arthur 
asked,  and  the  troubled  eyes  of  blue  turned  anxiously  to 
Edith. 

"  Miggie,  sister,  won't  you  ?  " 

Edith  shook  her  head,  not  very  decidedly,  it  is  true,  still 
it  was  a  negative  shake,  and  Nina  said,  "  Arthur  boy,  will 
you?" 

"No,  Nina,  no." 

His  answer  was  determined,  and  poor,  discouraged  Ni- 
na sobbed  aloud,  "  Who  will,  who  will  ?  " 

In  the  adjoining  room  there  was  a  rustling  sound  —  a 
coming  footstep,  and  Victor  Dupres  appeared  in  the  door. 
He  had  been  an  unwilling  hearer  of  that  conversation, 
and  when  Nina  cried  "  who  will  ?  "  he  started  up,  and 
coming  into  the  room  as  if  by  accident,  advanced  to  the 
bedside  and  asked  in  his  accustomed  friendly  way,  "  How 
is  Nina  to-night?"  Then  bending  over  her  so  that  no 
ouj  should  hear,  he  whispered  softly,  "Don't  tell  them, 
but  I'll  read  that  letter  to  Richard  !  " 

Nina  understood  him  and  held  his  band  a  moment 
While  she  looked  the  thanks  she  dared  not  speak. 

"  Nina  must  not  talk  any  more  "  Arthur  said,  as  Victor 


810  BARENESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

walked  away,  "she  is  wearing  out  too  fast,"  and  with 
motherly  tenderness  he  smoothed  her  tumbled  pillow  — 
pushed  back  behind  her  ears  the  tangled  curls  —  kissed 
her  forehead,  and  then  went  out  into  the  deepening  night, 
whose  cool  damp  air  was  soothing  to  his  burning  brow, 
and  whose  sheltering  mantle  would  tell  no  tales  of  hii 
white  face  or  of  the  cry  which  came  heaving  up  fi  om 
where  the  turbulent  waters  lay,  "if  it  be  possible  let 
this  temptation  pass  from  me,  or  give  me  strength  to  re- 
sist it." 

His  prayer  was  heard  —  the  turmoil  ceased  at  last — • 
the  waters  all  were  stilled,  and  Arthur  went  back  to  Ni- 
na, a  calm,  quiet  man,  ready  and  willing  to  meet  what- 
ever the  future  might  bring. 


CHAPTER  XXX  T. 

LAST   DATS. 

"  Aunt  Hannah  will  stay  with  me  to-night,"  Nina  said 
to  Arthur  the  next  day,  referring  to  an  old  negress  who 
had  taken  care  of  her  when  a  child ;  and  Arthur  yielded 
to  her  request  the  more  willingly,  because  of  his  own 
weariness. 

Accordingly  old  Hannah  was  installed  watcher  in  the 
sick  room,  receiving  orders  that  her  patient  should  not  on 
any  account  be  permitted  to  talk  more  than  was  absolute- 
ly necessary.  Nina  heard  this  injunction  of  Arthur  and 
a  smile  of  cunning  flitted  across  her  face  as  she  thought 
how  she  would  turn  it  to  her  own  advantage,  in  case 
Hannah  refused  to  comply  with  her  request,  which  she 
made  as  soon  as  they  were  left  alone. 

Hannah  must  first  prop  her  up  in  bed,  she  said  and  then 
give  her  her  port-folio,  paper,  pen  and  ink.  As  S-«e  expect- 


LAST   DATS.  311 

ed,  the  negress  objected  at  once,  bidding  her  be  still,  but 
Nina  declared  her  intention  of  talking  as  fast  and  as 
loudly  as  she  could,  until  her  wish  was  gratified.  Then 
Hannah  threatened  calling  Arthur,  whereupon  the  willful 
little  lady  rejoined,  "  I'll  scream  like  murder,  if  you  do, 
and  burst  every  single  blood-vessel  I've  got,  so  bring  me 
tbe  paper,  please,  or  shall  I  get  it  myself,"  and  she  made 
a  motion  as  if  she  would  leap  upon  the  floor,  while  poor 
old  Hannah,  regretting  the  task  she  had  undertaken,  waa 
compelled  to  submit  and  bring  the  writing  materials  as 
desired. 

"Now  you  go  to  sleep,"  Nina  said  coaxingly,  and  as 
old  Hannah  found  but  little  difficulty  in  obeying  the  com- 
mand, Nina  was  left  to  herself,  while  she  wrote  that  long, 
long  message,  a  portion  of  which  we  give  below. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Richard: 

"  Poor  blind  man !  Nina  is  so  sorry  for  you  to-night, 
because  she  knows  that  what  she  has  to  tell  you  will  crush 
the  strong  life  all  out  of  your  big  heart,  and  leave  it  as 
cold  and  dead  as  she  will  be  when  Victor  reads  this  to 
you.  There  won't  be  any  Nina  then,  for  Miggie  and 
Arthur,  and  a  heap  more,  will  have  gone  with  her  way 
out  where  both  my  mothers  are  lying,  and  Miggie'll  cry, 
I  reckon,  when  she  hears  the  gravel  stones  rattling  down 
just  over  my  head,  but  I  shall  know  they  cannot  hit  me, 
for  the  coffin-lid  will  be  between,  and  Nina'll  lie  so  still. 
No  more  pain;  no  more  buzzing;  no  more  headache;  no 
more  darkness ;  won't  it  fee  grand,  the  rest  I'm  going  to. 
I  shan't  be  crazy  in  Heaven.  Arthur  says  so,  and  he 
In  ows. 

*  Poor  Arthur !  It  is  of  him  and  Miggie  I  am  writing 
to  you,  if  I  ever  can  get  to  them ;  and  Richard,  when 
you  hear  this  read,  Nina'll  be  there  wifch  you ;  but  you 
can't  see  her,  because  you're  blind,  and  you  couldn't  see 
her  if  you  weru't,  but  she'll  be  there  just  the  same, 


812  DARKNESS   AOT>    DAYLIGHT. 


She'll  sit  upon  your  knee,  and  wind  her  arms  around  you* 
neck,  so  as  to  comfort  you  when  the  great  cry  comes  in,  the 
crash  like  the  breaking  up  of  the  winter  ice  on  the  north- 
ern ponds,  and  when  you  feel  yourself  all  crushed  like 
they  are  in  the  spring,  listen  and  you'll  hear  her  whisper- 
ing. '  Poor  Richard,  Nina  pities  you  so  much  !  She'll 
kiss  your  tears  away,  too,  though  maybe  you  won't  feel 
her.  And,  Richard,  you'll  do  right,  won't  you.  You'll 
give  JVIiggie  up.  You'll  let  Arthur  have  her,  and  so  bring 
back  the  sunshine  to  her  face.  She's  so  pale  now  and 
sorry,  and  the  darkness  lies  thickly  around  her. 

"  There  are  three  kinds  of  darkness,  Richard.  One  like 
mine,  when  the  brain  has  a  buzz  in  the  middle,  and  every- 
thing is  topsy-turvy.  One,  like  yours,  when  the  world  is 
all  shut  out  with  its  beauty  and  its  flowers  ;  and  then  there's 
another,  a  blacker  darkness,  when  the  buzz  is  in  the  heart, 
making  it  wild  with  pain.  Such,  Richard,  is  the  darkness, 
which  lies  like  a  pall  around  our  beautiful  sister  Miggie, 
and  it  will  deepen  and  deepen  unless  you  do  what  Nina 
asks  you  to  do,  and  what  Miggie  never  will,  because  she 
promised  that  she  wouldn't  -  " 

Then  followed  the  entire  story  of  the  marriage  per- 
formed by  Richard,  of  the  grief  which  followed,  of  Ar- 
thur's gradually  growing  love  of  Edith,  of  the  scene  of 
the  Deering  woods,  of  the  incident?  .  connected  with 
Edith's  sickness,  her  anguish  at  parting  with  Arthur,  her 
love  for  him  still,  her  struggles  to  do  right,  and  her  de 
termination  to  keep  her  engagement  even  though  she 
died  in  doing  it. 

All  this  was  told  in  Nina's  own  peculiar  style;  and 
lljen  came  her  closing  appeal  that  Richard  himself  should 
bi  eak  the  bonds  and  set  poor  Miggie  free. 

"  .  .  .  .  It  will  be  dreadful  at  first,  I  know,  and  may 
be  all  three  of  the  darknesses  will  close  around  you  for  a 


LAST   DATS.  313 

fame,  —  darkness  of  the  heart,  darkness  of  the  brain,  and 
darkness  of  the  eyes,  but  it  will  clear  away  and  the  day- 
light will  break,  in  which  you  will  be  hajpier  than  in 
calling  Miggie  your  wife,  and  knowing  how  she  shrinks 
from  you.  suffering  your  caresses  only  because  she  knows 
•he  mus>,  but  feeling  so  sick  at  her  stomach  all  the  time, 
and  wishing  you  wouldn't  touch  her.  I  know  just  how  it 
feels,  for  when  Arthur  kissed  me,  or  took  my  hand,  or  even 
came  in  my  sight,  before  the  buzz  got  into  my  head,  it 
made  me  so  cold  and  faint  and  ugly,  the  way  the  Yankees 
mean,  knowing  he  was  my  husband  when  I  wanted  Char- 
lie Hudson.  Don't  subject  Miggie  to  this  horrid  fate. 
Be  generous  and  give  her  up  to  Arthur.  He  may  not  de- 
serve her  more  than  you,  but  she  loves  him  the  best  and 
that  makes  a  heap  of  difference. 

"  It's  Nina  who  asks  it,  Richard ;  dead  Nina,  not  a  liv- 
ing one.  She  is  sitting  on  your  knee  ;  her  arms  are  round 
your  neck  ;  her  face  against  yours  and  you  must  not  tell 
her  no,  or  she'll  cling  to  you  day  and  night,  night  and 
day ;  when  you  are  in  company  and  when  you  are  alone. 
When  it  is  dark  and  lonely  and  all  but  you  asleep,  she'll 
sit  upon  your  pillow  and  whisper  continually,  '  Give  Mig- 
gie up,  give  Miggie  up,'  or  if  you  don't,  and  Miggie's  there 
beside  you,  Xina'll  stand  between  you ;  a  mighty,  though 
invisible  shield,  and  you'll  feel  it's  but  a  mockery,  the  call- 
ing her  your  wife  when  her  love  is  given  to  another. 

"  Good  bye,  now,  Richard,  good  bye.  My  brain  begins 
to  buzz,  my  hand  to  tremble.  The  lines  all  run  together, 
and  I  am  most  as  blind  as  you.  God  bless  you,  Mi-.  Rich- 
ard ;  bless  you  any  way,  but  a  heap  more  if  you  giv«» 
Miggie  up.  May  be  He'll  give  you  back  your  sight  to 
pay  for  Miggie.  I  should  rather  have  it  than  a  wife  who 
di  1  not  love  me  ;  and  I'll  tease  Him  till  He'll  let  me  1  ri 
it,  to  you  some  day. 

"Good  bye,  again,  good  bye. 

"NDfA  ABTHCB 
14 


814  DAEKtfESR   AWD   DAYLIGHT. 

The  night  was  nearly  worn  away,  ere  the  letter  was 
finished ;  and  Nina's  eyes  flashed  \ritL  unwonted  fire  as 
laughing  aloud  at  the  Arthur  added  to  her  name,  she  laid 
it  away  beneath  her  pillow  and  then  tried  herself  to  sleep. 
But  this  last  was  impossible,  and  when  the  morning  broke 
ehe  was  so  much  worse  that  the  old  nurse  trembled  lest 
her  master  should  censure  her  severely  for  having  yielded 
to  he/  young  mistress's  whim.  Mild  and  gentle  as  he 
seemed,  Arthur  could,  if  necessary,  be  T:rery  stern,  and 
knowing  this,  old  Hannah  concluded  at  last  that  if  Nina 
did  not  betray  herself  she  would  not,  and  when  Arthur 
came,  expressing  his  surprise  at  the  change,  and  asking" 
for  its  cause,  she  told  glibly  "  how  restless  and  onquiet 
Miss  Nina  done  been  flirtin'  round  till  the  blood  all  got  in 
her  head  and  she  was  dreadful." 

"  You  should  have  called  me,"  Arthur  said,  sitting  down 
by  Nina,  whose  feverish  hands  he  clasped,  while  he 
asked,  "  Is  my  little  girl's  head  very  bad  this  morning  ?  " 

Nina  merely  nodded,  for  she  really  was  too  weak  to 
talk,  and  Arthur  watched  her  uneasily,  wondering  why  it 
was  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  so  constantly  upon  the  door, 
as  if  expecting  some  one.  When  breakfast  was  announced 
she  insisted  that  both  he  and  Edith  should  leave  her,  and, 
the  moment  they  were  gone,  she  asked  for  Victor,  who 
came  at  once,  half  guessing  why  he  was  sent  for. 

"  Under  my  pillow,"  she  whispered,  as  he  bent  over  her, 
and  in  an  instant  the  letter,  of  whose  exists  nee  neither 
Arthur  nor  Edith  suspected,  was  safe  in  Victor's  pocket. 

Nina  had  accomplished  her  object,  and  she  became 
unusually  quiet.  Richard  would  get  the  letter  —  Richard 
would  do  right,  she  knew,  and  the  conviction  brought  to 
her  a  deep  peace,  which  nothing  ever  after  disturbed. 
She  did  not  speak  of  him "  again,  and  her  last  days  were 
thus  pleasanter  to  Edith,  who,  from  the  sweet  companion* 
ship  held  with  her  gentle  sister,  learned  in  part  what  Nina 
Bernard  was,  ere  the  darkness  of  which  she  had  written 


LAST  DATS.  315 

to  Richard  crept  into  her  brain.  Fair  and  beautiful  as 
the  white  pond  lily,  she  faded  rapidly,  until  Arthur  earned 
her  no  longer  to  the  window,  holding  her  in  his  arms  while 
she  looked  out  upon  the  yard  and  garden  where  she  used 
to  play — but  she  lay  all  day  upon  her  bed  holding  Edith's 
Hands,  and  talking  to  her  of  that  past  still  so  dim  and 
vagne  to  the  latter.  Marie,  too,  often  joined  them,  repeat- 
ing to  Edith  many  incidents  of  interest  connected  with 
both  her  parents,  but  speaking  most  of  the  queenly  Petrea, 
whom  Edith  so  strongly  resembled.  Nina,  too,  remem- 
bered her  well,  and  Edith  was  never  weary  of  hearing  her 
tell  of  the  "  beautiful  new  mamma,"  who  kissed  her  so 
tenderly  that  night  when  she  first  came  home,  calling  her 
la  petite  enfant,  and  placing  in  her  arms  a  darling  little 
sister,  with  eyes  just  like  the  stars ! 

Very  precious  to  Edith  was  the  memory  of  those  days, 
when  she  watched  the  dying  Nina,  who,  as  death  drew 
near,  clung  closer  and  closer  to  her  sister,  refusing  to  let 
her  go. 

"  I  want  you  with  me,"  she  said,  one  afternoon,  when 
the  late  autumn  rain  was  beating  against  the  window- 
pane,  and  the  clouds  hung  leaden  and  dull  in  the  South- 
ern sky.  "  I  want  you  and  Arthur,  both,  to  lead  me  down 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  river,  and  not  let  go  my  hands 
until  the  big  waves  wash  me  away,  for  Nina's  a  wee  bit 
of  a  girl,  and  she'll  be  afraid  to  launch  out  alone  upon  the 
rushing  stream.  I  wish  you'd  go  too,  Miggie, —  go  over 
Jordan  with  me.  Why  does  God  make  me  go  alone ? " 

M  You  will  not  go  alone,  my  darling ! "  and  Edith's  voice 
was  choked  with  tears  as  she  told  the  listening  Nina  of 
one  whose  arm  would  surely  hold  her  up,  so  that  the  wa- 
ters should  not  overflow. 

a  It's  the  Saviour  you  mean,"  and  Nina  spoke  reverent- 
ly. "  I  loved  Him  years  ago  before  the  buzzing  came,  but 
I've  been  so  bad  since  then,  that  I'm  afraid  that  He'll  cast 
me  off  Will  He,  think?  When  I  tell  him  I  am  little 


816  DARKJTESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Nina  Bernard  come  from  Sunnybank,  will  He  say,  'Go 
'way  old  crazy  Nina,  that  tore  poor  Arthur  boy's  hair  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  oh,  no,"  and  Edith  sobbed  impetuously  as  she 
essayed  to  comfort  the  bewildered  girl,  whose  mind  grasp- 
ed but  faintly  the  realities  *of  eternity. 

"  And  you'll  stand  on  the  bank  till  I  am  clear  across," 
•he  said,  when  Edith  had  ceased  speaking,  "You  and 
Arthur  stand  where  I  can  see  you  if  I  should  look  back. 
And,  Miggie,  I  have  a  presentiment  that  Nina'll  go  to 
night,  but  I  don't  want  any  body  here  except  you  and 
Arthur.  I  remember  when  grandma  died  the  negroes 
howled  so  dismally,  and  they  didn't  love  her  one  bit  either. 
They  used  to  make  mouths  at  her,  and  hide  her  teeth. 
But  they  do  love  me,  and  their  screeches  will  get  my 
head  all  in  a  twist.  I'd  rather  they  wouldn't  know  till 
morning ;  then  when  they  ask  for  me  Arthur'll  tell  them 
sorry  like  that  Nina's  dead ;  Nina's  gone  into  the  daylight, 
and  left  a  world  of  love  to  them  who  have  been  so  kind 
to  her.  Don't  let  them  crowd  up  around  me,  or  make  too 
much  ado.  It  isn't  worth  the  while,  for  I'm  of  no  account, 
and  you'll  be  good  to  them  Miggie  —  good  to  the  poor 
ignorant  blacks.  They  are  your's  after  me,  and  I  love 
them  a  heap.  Don't  let  them  be  sold,  will  you  ?  " 

Here  Nina  paiised,  too  much  exhausted  to  talk  longer, 
and  when  about  dark  Arthur  came  in,  he  found  her  asleep 
with  Edith  at  her  side,  while  upon  her  face  and  about 
her  nose  there  was  a  sharp,  pinched  loo&  he  had  never 
seen  before.  Intuitively,  however,  he  knew  that  look 
was  the  harbinger  of  death,  and  when  Edith  told  him 
what  Nina  had  said,  he  felt  that  ere  the  morning  came  his 
brokec  lily  would  be  gone. 

Slowly  the  evening  wore  on,  and  one  by  one  the  family 
retired,  leaving  Ai-thur  and  Edith  alone  with  the  pale 
sleeper  whose  slumbers  ended  not  until  near  the  midnight 
hour ;  silently,  sadly,  Arthur  and  Edith  watched  her,  she 
on  one  side,  he  upon  the  other,  neither  speaking  for  the 


LAST  DATS.  317 

sorrow  which  lay  so  heavy  at  their  hearts.  She  was  very 
beautiful  as  she  lay  there  so  motionless,  and  Arthu  •  felt 
his  heart  clinging  more  and  more  to  his  fair,  childish  wife, 
while  his  conscience  smote  him  cruelly  for  any  wro^g  he 
might  have  done  to  her.  She  was  going  from  him  now 
so  fast,  and  as  the  clock  struck  twelve  the  softbl<iw.  eyes 
unclosed  and  smiled  up  in  his  face  with  an  ex)>~ession 
which,  better  than  words  could  do,  told  that  she  V>  >re  no 
malice  toward  him,  nothing  but  trusting  faith  and  confid- 
ing love.  He  had  been  kind  to  her,  most  kind,  rnd  she 
told  him  so  again,  for  she  seemed  to  know  how  dear  to 
him  such  testimonial  would  be  when  she  was  gone. 

"The  clouds  are  weeping  for  Nina,"  she  said,  as  she 
heard  the  rain  still  beating  against  the  window.  "  Will  it 
make  the  river  deeper,  think  ?  I  hear  its  roar  in  the  dis- 
tance. It's  just  beginning  to  heave  in  sight,  and  I  dread 
it  so  much.  'Twill  be  lonesome  crossing  this  dismal,  rainy 
night.  Oh,  Arthur  —  boy,  Arthur  —  boy,  let  me  stay  with 
you.  Can't  you  keep  me  ?  Can't  you  hide  me  some- 
where ?  you,  Miggie  ?  I  won't  be  in  the  way.  It's  so  icy, 
and  the  river  is  so  deep.  Save  me,  do ! "  and  she  stretched 
out  her  hands  to  Arthur  as  if  imploring  him  to  hold  her 
back  from  the  rushing  stream  bearing  down  so  fast  upon 
her. 

Forcing  down  his  own  great  grief,  Arthur  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  hugging  her  fondly  to  him,  sought  to  com- 
fort her  by  whispering  of  the  blessed  Saviour  who  would 
carry  her  in  His  bosom  beyond  the  swelling  flood,  and 
Nina,  as  she  listened,  grew  calm  and  still,  while  something 
like  the  glory  of  the  better  land  shone  upon  her  face  aa 
she  repeated  after  him, "  There'll  be  no  night,  no  Juk- 
ness  there,  no  headache,  no  pain,  —  nor  buzzing  either,?* 
she  suddenly  asked.  "  Say,  will  there  be  any  buzzing 
brains  iu  Heaven  ?  " 

Arthur  shook  his  head,  and  she  continued,  "  That  will 
be  so  nice,  and  Dr.  Griswold  will  be  so  glad  when  he 


318  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

knows  Nina  is  not  crazy.  He's  gone  before,  I  reckon, 
to  take  care  of  me,  —  gone  where  there's  nothing  but 
daylight,  glorious,  grand;  kiss  me  again,  Arthur  boy. 
'Tis  sweet  to  die  upon  your  bosom  with  Miggie  standing 
near,  and  when  you  both  are  happy  in  each  other's  love, 
don't  quite  forget  little  Nina,  —  Nina  out  under  the  flow- 
ers, will  you  ?  She's  done  a  heap  of  naughtiness,  I  know ; 
but  she's  sorry,  Arthur,  she  is  so  sorry  that  she  ever  bit 
your  arm  or  tore  your  hair !  Poor  hair !  Pretty  brown 
hair !  Bad  Nina  made  the  white  threads  come,"  and  her 
childish  hands  caressed  the  thick  brown  locks  mingling 
with  her  sunny  curls,  as  Arthur  bent  over  her,  answering 
only  with  his  tears,  which  fell  in  torrents. 

"  Don't,  darling,  don't,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  The  bad  has 
all  be3n  on  my  side,  and  I  would  that  you  should  once 
more  say  I  am  forgiven." 

Nina  gazed  wonderingly  at  him  a  moment,  then  made 
a  motion  that  he  should  lay  her  back  upon  the  pillow. 

"  Now  put  your  head  down  here,  right  on  my  neck  — 
so." 

He  complied  with  her  request,  and  placing  both  her 
hands  upon  the  bowed  head  of  the  young  man,  Nina 
whispered, 

"  May  the  Good  Shepherd,  whose  lamb  Nina  hopes  to 
be,  keep  my  Arthur  boy,  and  bless  him  a  hundred  fold  for 
all  he's  been  to  me,  and  if  he  has  wronged  me,  which  I 
don't  believe,  but  if  he  has,  will  God  please  forgive  him 
as  fully,  as  freely  as  Nina  does  —  the  best  Arthur  boy  that 
ever  lived.  I'll  tell  God  all  about  it,  and  how  I  pestered 
you,  and  how  good  you  were,  my  Arthur  boy  —  Nina's 
Arthur  first  and  Miggie's  after  me.  Now  put  your  arms 
around  me  again,"  she  said,  as  she  finished  the  blessing 
which  brought  such  peace  to  Arthur.  "Put  them  around 
me  tight,  for  the  river  is  almost  here.  Don't  you  hear  ita 
splashing?  Miggie,  Miggie,"  she  cried,  shivering  as  with 
an  ague  chill,  "  hold  my  hand  with  all  your  might,  but  don't 


LAST    DAYS.  319 

let  me  jull  you  in.  I'm  going  down  the  bank.  My  feet 
are  in  the  water,  and  it's  so  freezing  cold.  I'm  sinking, 
too,  and  tbe  big  waves  roll  over  me.  Oh,  Arthur,  you 
said  it  would  not  hurt,"  and  the  dim  eyes  flashed  upon  the 
weeping  man  a  most  reproachful  glance,  as  if  he  had  de- 
ceived her,  while  the  feet  were  drawn  shudderingly  up, 
as  if  they  had,  indeed,  touched  the  chill  tide  of  death,  and 
shrank  affrighted  from  it.  Edith  could  only  sob  wildly, 
as  she  grasped  the  clammy  hand  stretched  toward  her, 
but  Arthur,  more  composed,  whispered  to  the  dying  girl, 

"Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  thou,  Lord,  art  with  me ; 
thy  staff  and  thy  rod,  they  comfort  me." 

"  Look  away  to  the  shore,"  he  continued,  as  Nina  ceased 
to  struggle,  and  lay  still  on  his  bosom.  "  Look  away  to 
the  glorious  city  —  my  darling  is  almost  there." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  do,  I  am,"  came  faintly  up,  and  then  with 
a  glad  cry  of  joy,  which  rang  in  their  ears  for  many  a  day 
and  night,  Nina  said, 

u  You  may  lay  me  down,  my  Arthur  boy,  and  take  your 
arm  away.  There's  a  stronger  one  than  your's  around  me 
now.  The  arm  that;  Miggie  told  me  of,  and  it  will  not 
let  me  down.  I'm  going  over  so  easy,  easy,  in.  a  cradle- 
like,  and  Dr.  Griswold's  there  waiting  for  clipped-winged 
birdie.  He  looks  so  glad,  so  happy.  It  is  very  nice  to 
die ;  but  stand  upon  the  bank,  Arthur  and  Miggie.  Wait 
till  I'm  across." 

They  thought  she  had  left  them,  when  softly,  sweetly, 
as  if  it  wore  a  note  of  heavenly  music  sent  back  to  them 
from  the  other  world,  there  floated  on  the  air  the  words, 

"Climb  up  the  bank,  I'm  most  across.    I  do  not  see 
ron  now.    Mother  —  and  Miggie's  mother  —  and  Dr.  Gris  • 
void  have  waded  out  to  meet  me.     The  darkness  is  passed, 
Jie  daylight  lias  dawned ;  Miggie  precious,  and  darling 
Arthur  boy,  good-bye,  for  Nina's  gone,  good-bye." 

The  white  lips  never  moved  again,  the  waxen  hands  lay 


820  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT^ 

lifelessly  in  Arthur's,  the  damp,  bright  hair  lay  half-uncurl. 
ed  upon  the  pillow,  the  blue  eyes  were  closed,  the  aching 
head  was  still,  the  "  twisted  brain  "  had  ceased  to  "  buzz,* 
the  Darkness  for  her  was  over,  and  Nina  had  gone  out  in 
1 9  the  Daylight. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

PASTING    WITH    THE   DEAD,   AND   PAETING   WITH    THK 
LIVING. 

Softly  the  morning  broke  and  the  raindrops  glittered 
like  diamonds  in  the  rising  sun,  whose  rays  fell  mockingly 
upon  desolate  Sunnybank,  where  the  howling  of  the  blacks 
mingled  with  the  sobs  of  those  more  nearly  bereaved.  Very 
troublesome  had  the  beautiful  departed  been  in  life  ;  none 
knew  how  troublesome  one-half  so  well  as  Arthur,  and 
yet  of  all  the  weeping  band  who  gathered  around  her  bed, 
none  mourned  "her  more  truly  than  did  he  who  had  been 
her  husband  in  name  for  eleven  years.  Eleven  years! 
How  short  they  seemed,  looked  back  upon,  and  how  much 
sorrow  they  had  brought  him.  But  this  was  all  forgotten, 
and  in  his  heart  there  was  naught  save  tender  love  for 
the  little  maiden  now  forever  at  rest. 

All  the  day  he  sat  by  her,  and  both  Edith  and  Victor 
felt  that  it  was  not  the  mere  semblance  of  grief  he  wore, 
while  others  of  the  household,  who  knew  nothing  of  his 
past  in  connection  with  Edith,  said  to  each  other,  "  It  ig 
strange  he  should  love  her  so  well  when  she  was  so  m  uck 
care  to  him." 

They  did  not  know  it  was  this  very  care  for  her ;  this 
bearing  with  her  which  made  her  so  dear  to  him,  and  as 
the  mother  longs  for  and  wishes  back  the  unfortunate  but 
beloved  child  which  made  her  life  so  wearisome  so  Arttwr 


PARTINGS.  321 

mourned  and  wept  for  Nina,  thanking  God  one  moment 
afaat  her  poor,  pain-worn*  head  was  at  rest,  and  again  mur 
muring  to  himself,  "  I  would  that  I  had  her  back  again." 

He  scarcely  spoke  to  Edith,  although  he  knew  when- 
ever  her  footsteps  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  darkened 
room  ;  knew  when  she  bent  over  Nina ;  heard  the  kissea 
she  pressed  on  the  cold  lips;  and  even  watched  until  it 
was  dry  the  tear  she  once  left  on  Nina's  cheek,  but  he 
held  no  communication  with  her,  and  she  was  left  to  bat- 
tle with  her  grief  alone.  Once,  indeed,  she  went  to  him 
and  asked  what  Nina  should  be  buried  in,  and  this  for  a 
time  roused  him  from  his  apathetic  grief. 

"  Nina  must  be  buried  in  white,"  he  said ;  "  she  looked 
the  best  in  that ;  and,  Edith,  I  would  have  her  curls  cut  oflj 
all  but  those  that  shade  her  face.  You  have  arranged 
them  every  day.  Will  you  do  so  once  more  if  I  will  hold 
her  up?" 

Edith  would  rather  the  task  had  devolved  upon  some 
one  else,  but  she  offered  no  objection,  though  her  tears 
fell  like  rain  when  she  brought  the  curling-stick  and  brush 
and  began  to  separate  the  tangled  locks,  while  Arthur  en- 
circled the  rigid  form  with  his  arm,  as  carefully  as  if  she 
still  were  living,  watching  her  with  apparent  interest  as 
she  twined  about  her  fingers  the  golden  hair.  But  when, 
at  last,  she  held  the  scissors  which  were  to  sever  those 
bright  tresses,  his  fortitude  all  gave  way,  for  he  remem- 
bered another  time  when  he  had  held  poor  Nina,  not  as 
he  held  her  now,  but  with  a  stronger,  firmer  grasp,  while, 
by  rougher  hands  than  Edith's,  those  locks  were  shorn 
away  Groan  after  groan  came  from  his  broad  chest,  and 
bis  tears  moistened  the  long  ringlets  he  so  lovingly  ca- 
ressed. 

"  You  may  cut  Miem  now,"  he  said  at  last,  holding  his 

hreath  as  if  the  sharp  steel  were  cutting  into  his  heart's 

core,  as,  one  by  one,  the  yellowish  curls  were  severed,  and 

dropped,  some  into  Edith's  lap,  while  others,  lodging  upon- 

11* 


S22  DARKNESS   AJSD    DAYLIGHT. 

his  fingers,  curled  about  them  with  a  seemingly  human 
touch,  making  him  moan  bitterly,  as  he  pressed  them  to 
his  lips,  and  then  shook  them  gently  off. 

Nina's  hair,  like  her  sister's,  had  been  her  crowning 
glory — so  thick,  so  wavy,  so  luxuriant  it  was;  and  when 
tho  task  was  done,  and  the  tresses  divided,  five  hea\'y 
evil  A  were  Arthur's,  and  five  more  were  Edith's. 

"  Where  shall  I  put  yours  ? "  Edith  asked,  and  for  a 
moment  Arthur  did  not  answer. 

In  a  rosewood  box,  into  which  he  had  not  looked  for 
years,  there  was  a  mass  of  longer,  paler,  more  uneven  curls 
than  these,  but  Arthur  would  not  distress  Edith  by  telling 
her  about  them,  and  he  replied,  at  last,  "I  will  put  them 
away,  myself. "  Then  taking  them  from  her  and  going 
to  his  own  private  chamber,  he  opened  the  box  and 
dropped  them  in,  weeping  when  he  saw  how  strongly  they' 
contrasted  with  the  other  faded  crazy  curls,  as  he  called 
them. 

In  a  plain  white  muslin,  which  had  been  made  for  Nina 
at  Grassy  Spring,  they  arrayed  her  for  the  coffin,  the  soft, 
rich  lace  encircling  her  throat  and  falling  about  her  slen- 
er  arms  folded  so  meekly  together.  Flowers  were  twined 
about  her  head  —  flowers  were  on  her  pillow  — flowers  in 
her  hands  —  flowers  upon  her  bosom  —  flowers  of  purest 
white,  and  meet  emblems  of  the  sweet  young  girl,  whose 
features,  to  the  last,  retained  the  same  childlike,  peaceful 
expression  whi^h  had  settled  upon  them  when  she  called 
back  to  Arthur,  "  Climb  up  the  bank.  I'm  most  across." 

The  day  of  her  burial  was  balmy  and  warm,  and  the 
southern  wind  blew  softly  across  the  fields  as  the  weeping 
band  followed  the  lost  one  across  the  threshold  and  laid 
her  away  where  the  flowers  of  spring  would  blossom  above 
her  little  grave.  Very  lonely  and  desolate  seemed  the 
house  when  the  funeral  train  returned  to  it,  and  the  la. 
mentations  of  the  blacks  broke  out  afresh  as  they  began 
to  realize  that  their  young  mistress  was  really  gone,  and 


PAKTDfOS.  323 

henceforth  another  must  fill  her  place.  Would  it  be  Ar- 
thur or  would  it  be  the  queenly  Edith,  whose  regal  beauty 
had  captivated  all  their  hearts  ?  Assembled  in  the  kitchen 
they  discussed  this  question,  giving  to  neither  the  prefer- 
ence, for  though  they  had  tried  Arthur  and  found  him  a 
kind  and  humane  master,  they  felt  that  after  Nina,  Edith 
had  the  right.  Then,  as  other  than  blacks  will  do,  they 
speculated  upon  the  future,  wondering  why  both  Arthur 
and  Edith  could  not  rule  jointly  over  them ;  they  would 
like  that  vastly,  aHd  had  nearly  decided  that  *t  would  be, 
when  Victor,  who  was  with  them,  tore  down  their  castle 
by  telling  them  that  Edith  was  already  engaged  to  some 
one  else.  This  changed  the  channel  of  conversation,  and 
Victor  left  them  wondering  still  what  the  future  would 
bring. 

Slowly  the  evening  passed,  in  kitchen  and  in  parlor 
and  only  those  who  have  felt  it  can  tell  the  unspeakable 
loneliness  of  that  first  evening  after  the  burial  of  the 
dead.  Several  times  Arthur  started  as  if  he  would  go  to 
the  bed  standing  empty  in  the  corner,  while  Edith,  too, 
fancied  that  she  heard  the  name  "  Miggie,"  spoken  as  only 
Nina  could  speak  it.  Then  came  a  feeling  of  desolation 
as  the  thought  was  forced  upon  them,  "  She  is  gone  ; "  and 
as  the  days  went  on  till  three  suns  had  risen  on  her  grave, 
the  loneliness  increased  until  Edith  could  bear  it  no  long- 
er, and  to  Victor  she  said,  "  We  will  go  back  to  Richard, 
who  is  waiting  so  anxiously  for  us." 

Everything  which  Arthur  could  do  he  did  to  reinstate 
Edith  in  her  rights.  Not  one  dollar  of  the  Bernard  estate 
had  he  ever  spent  for  himself,  and  very  little  for  Nina,  pre- 
ferring to  care  for  hei  out  of  his  own  resources,  and  thus 
the  property  had  increased  so  rapidly  that  Edith  was  rich- 
er than  her  wildest  hopes.  But  not  one  feather  did  thia 
weigh  with  her,  and  on  the  day  when  matters  were  ar- 
ranged, she  refused  to  do  or  say  anything  about  it,  persist- 
ing so  obstinately  in  her  refusal,  that  the  servants  whis« 


324  DABKJfKSS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

pered  slily  to  each  other,  "  Thar's  a  heap  of  old  /narster*t 
grit  thar." 

For  a  time  Arthur  coaxed  and  reasoned  with  her;  then 
finding  that  this  did  not  avail,  he  changed  the  mode  of 
treatment,  and,  placing  a  chair  by  his  own,  said ;  j  her  corn- 
mandingly,  "  Edith,  sit  here ! "  and  she  sat  the  e,  for  Uiera 
was  that  in  Arthur's  sternness  which  always  e»  forced  oba 
dience. 

"  It  cannot  be  more  unpleasant  for  you  than  f .  r  me,  but  it 
is  necessary,"  he  said  to  her,  in  a  low  tone,  as  s^e  sink  into 
her  seat,  and  ashamed  of  her  willfulness,  Edith  whispered 
back,  "  I  am  sorry  I  behaved  so  like  a  child.  For^ve  me 
won't  you  ?  " 

Still  it  grated  harshly,  this  being  compelled  to  listen 
while  the  lawyer,  summoned  by  Arthur,  talked  to  her  of 
lands  and  mortgages,  of  bank  stock,  and,  lastly,  of  the 
negroes.  Would  she  have  them  sold,  or  what  ?  Then 
Edith  roused  from  her  apathy.  Nina  had  entrusted  them 
to  her,  and  she  would  care  for  them.  They  should  not  be 
sold,  and  so  she  said  ;  they  should  still  live  at  Sunnybank, 
having  free  papers  made  out  in  case  of  accident  to  herself, 
or,  if  they  preferred,  they  should  go  with  her  at  once  to 
Collingwood,  and  Sunnybank  to  be  sold. 

Oh,  Heavens ! "  exclaimed  Victor,  who  had  stationed 
himself  behind  Edith.  "  Forty  niggers  at  Collingwood ! 
Mr.  Harrington  never  would  stand  that.  Leave  them 
here/' 

Arthur  smiled  at  the  Frenchman's  evident  distress,  while 
Edith  made  a  gesture  that  Victor  should  be  still,  and  then 
continued,  "It  maybe  better  to  leave  them  here  for  a  time  at 
least,  and  Mr.  Harrington  shall  decide  upon  their  fnturo 
home." 

She  said  this  naturally,  and  as  a  matter  of  cc  aree, .  ut  nei 
heart  leaped  to  her  throat  when  she  saw  the  pallor  which 
for  an  instant  overspread  Arthur's  face  at  her  allusion  to 
one  who  would  soon  have  the  right  to  rule  her  and  here. 


PABTGfQB.  328 

"Is  Mr.  Harrington  your  guardian, Miss  Bernard?"  the 
lawyer  asked,  and  ere  Edith  could  reply,  Arthur  answered 
for  her,  "  He  is  to  be  her  husband." 

The  lawyer  bowed  and  went  on  with  his  writing,  all 
unconscious  of  the  wounds  his  question  had  tore  open, 
leaving  them  to  bleed  afresh  as  both  Arthur  and  Edith  as- 
sumed a  mask  of  studied  indifference,  never  looking  at  or 
addressing  each  other  again  while  that  painful  interview 
lasted.  It  was  over  at  length,  and  the  lawyer  gone.  Mat- 
ters were  adjusted  as  well  they  could  be  at  present.  The 
negroes  were  to  remain  at  Sunnybank  under  charge  of  an 
overeeer  as  usual,  while  Arthur  was  to  stay  there,  too,  un- 
til he  decided  upon  his  future  course.  This  was  his  own 
proposition,  and  Edith  acceded  to  it  joyfully.  There  were 
no  sweet  home  associations,  connected  in  her  mind  with 
Sunnybank,  it  is  true,  for  she  was  too  young  when  she  left 
it  to  retain  more  than  a  dim,  shadowy  remembrance  of  a 
few  scenes  and  places  ;  but  it  had  been  Nina's  home;  there 
she  was  born,  there  she  had  lived,  there  she  had  died,  and 
Edith  felt  that  it  would  not  be  one  half  so  dreary  looked 
back  upon,  if  Arthur  would  stay  there  always. 

"  Why  can't  you  ?  "  she  asked  of  him  when  in  the  evening 
she  sat  with  him  in  the  rather  gloomy  parlor.  "  I'll  make 
you  my  agent  in  general,  giving  you  permission  to  do 
whatever  you  please,  or  would  you  rather  live  at  Grassy 
Spring  ?  " 

u  Anywhere  but  there,"  was  Arthur's  quick  response. 
"  I  shall  sell  Grassy  Spring  and  go  abroad.  I  shall  be 
happier  so.  I  have  never  known  the  comfort  of  a  home 
for  any  length  of  time,  and  it  does  not  matter  where  I  am. 
My  mother,  as  Grace  may  have  told  you,  was  a  gay,  fash- 
ionable woman,  and  after  the  period  of  mourning  had  ex- 
pired, I  only  remember  her  resplendent  in  satin  and  dia- 
monds, kissing  me  good-night  ere  her  departure  for  some 
grand  party.  Then,  when  I  was  eight  years  old,  she,  too, 
died,  leaving  me  to  the  care  of  a  guardian.  Thus,  yoq 


320  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

see,  I  have  no  pleasant  memories  of  a  home,  and  the  cafes 
of  Paris  will  suit  me  as  well  as  anything,  perhaps.  Once 
I  hoped  for  something  better,  but  that  is  over  now,  Nina 
is  dead,  while  you,  on  whom,  as  my  wife's  sister,  I  have 
seme  claim,  will  soon  be  gone  from  here  and  I  shall  be 
alone  I  shall  sell  Grassy  Spring,  —  shall  place  the  ne- 
groes there  in  your  keeping,  and  then  next  spring  leave 
the  country,  never  to  return,  it  may  be." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  there  was  a  silence  in  the  room 
which  Edith  could  not  break.  Arthur  had  told  her  frank- 
ly of  his  intended  future,  but  she  could  not  speak  of  hers 

—  could  not  tell  Mm  that  Collingwood's  doors  were  ever 
open  to  him  —  that  she  would  be  his  sister  in  very  deed 

—  that  Richard  would  welcome  him  as  a  brother  for  her 
sake,  and  that  the  time  might  come  when  they  could  be 
happy  thus.      All   this  passed    through   her   mind,  but 
not  a  word  of  it  escaped  her  lips,  lest  by  doing  so  she 
would  betray  her  real  feelings.     Arthur  did  not  seem  to 
her  now  as  he  had  done  a  few  days  previous ;  their  re- 
lations to  each  other  had  changed,  and  were  there  no 
Richard,  it  would  not  be  wicked  to  love  him  now.    Nina 
was  gone ;  the  past  was  more  than  atoned  for ;  the  marble, 
at  first  unsightly  to  some  degree,  had  been  hewn  and 
polished,  and  though  the  blows  had  each  struck  deep,  they 
wrought  in  Arthur  St.  Claire  a  perfect  work.     Ennobled, 
subdued,  and  purified,  he  was  every  way  desirable,  both 
as  brother,  friend,  and  husband,  but  he  was  not  for  her, 
and  the  consciousness  that  it  was  so,  palsied  her  powers 
of  speech. 

Wishing  to  say  something  to  break  the  awkward  silence, 
Arth  ur  asked  at  last,  if  it  were  true,  as  Victor  had  said, 
that  she  intended  starting  for  Collingwood  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  and  then  she  burst  into  tears,  but  made  him 
no  reply,  only  passionate  sobs  which  smote  cruelly  upon 
his  heart,  for  well  he  guessed  their  meaning.  He  could 
read  Edith  Hastings  aright  —  could  fathom  her  utmost 


PARTINGS.  32? 

thoughts,  and  he  knew  how  she  shrank  from  the  future 
dreading  a  return  to  Collingwood,  and  what  awaited  her 
there.  He  knew,  too,  that  but  a  few  words  from  himself 
were  needed  to  keep  her  at  Sunnybank  with  him  forever, 
Others  might  be  powerless  to  influence  her  decision,  but 
he  was  not ;  he  could  change  her  whole  future  life  by 
whispering  in  her  ear,  "  Stay  with  me,  Edith ;  don'1  go 
back,"  but  the  Arthur  of  to-day  was  stronger  than  the 
Arthur  of  one  year  ago,  and  though  the  temptation  was 
a  terrible  one,  he  met  it  bravely,  and  would  not  deal  thus 
treacherously  with  Richard,  who  had  so  generously  trusted 
her  with  him.  Edith  must  keep  her  vow,  and  when  at  last 
he  spoke,  it  was  to  say  something  of  the  journey,  as  if  that 
had  all  the  time  been  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  He  does  not  love  me  any  more,  and  I  don't  care,"  was 
Edith's  mental  comment,  as  she  soon  after  left  him  and 
hurried  to  her  room,  where  she  wept  herself  to  sleep, 
never  suspecting  how  long  and  dreary  was  that  night 
to  the  young  man  whose  eyelids  never  for  a  moment 
closed,  and  who,  as  the  day  was  breaking,  stole  out  to 
Nina's  grave,  finding  there  a  peace  which  kept  his  soul 
from  fainting. 

At  the  breakfast  table  he  was  the  same  easy,  elegant, 
attentive  host  he  always  was  in  his  own  house,  convei-sing 
pleasantly  upon  indifferent  topics,  but  he  could  not  look  at 
her  now,  on  this  her  last  day  with  him ;  could  not  endure 
to  hoar  her  voice,  and  he  avoided  her  presence,  seeing  as 
little  of  her  as  posssible,  and  retiring  unusually  early,  even 
though  he  read  in  her  speaking  eyes  a  wish  that  he  woul  J 
tarry  longer. 

The  next  morning,  however,  he  knew  the  instant  she 
was  astir,  listening  eagerly  to  the  sound  of  her  foot- 
steps as  she  made  her  hasty  toilet,  and  watching  her 
from  his  window  as  she  went  to  Nina's  grave,  sobbing 
out  her  sad  farewell  to  the  loved  dead.  He  saw  her,  too, 
as  she  came  back  to  the  house,  and  then  with  a  beating 
heart  went  down  to  meet  her. 


828  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

The  breakfast  was  scarcely  touched,  and  the  moment  it 
was  over  Edith  hurried  to  her  chamber,  for  it  was  nearly 
time  to  go.  The  trunks  were  brought  down  —  Edith's 
and  Marie's  —  for  the  latter  was  to  live  henceforth  with  her 
young  mistress;  the  servants  had  crowded  to  the  door, 
bidding  their  mistress  good  bye,  and  then  it  was  Arthur'* 
t  urn.  Oh,  who  shall  tell  of  the  tempest  which  raged  with- 
in as  he  held  for  a  moment  her ,  soft,  white  hand  in  his 
and  looked  into  the  face  which,  ere  he  saw  it  again,  might 
lose  its  girlish  charm  for  him,  inasmuch  as  a  husband's  kisses 
would  have  been  showered  upon  it.  Many  times  he  at- 
tempted to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  pressing  his  lips  to 
hers,  he  hastened  away,  going  straight  to  Nina's  grave^ 
which  had  become  to  him  of  late  a  Bethel. 

Scarcely  was  he  gone,  when  Tom,  the  driver,  announced 
that  something  was  the  matter  with  the  harness,  and  by 
this  delay,  Edith  gained  a  few  moments,  which  she  resolved 
to  spend  with  Nina.  She  did  not  know  that  Arthur,  too, 
was  there,  until  she  came  close  upon  him,  as  he  bent  over 
the  little  mound.  He  heard  her  step,  and  turning  toward 
her,  said,  half  bitterly,  "  Edith,  why  will  you  tempt  me 
so?" 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  don't,"  and  with  a  piteous  cry  Edith  sank 
at  his  feet,  and  laying  her  face  on  Nina's  grave,  sobbed  out, 
M I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here,  but  I  am  so  glad 
that  you  are,  for  I  cannot  go  without  your  blessing.  You 
must  tell  me  I  am  doing  right,  or  I  shall  surely  die.  The 
world  is  so  dark  —  so  dark." 

Arthur  had  been  tempted  before  —  sorely,  terribly 
tempted  —  but  never  like  this,  and  recoiling  a  pace  or  two, 
he  stood  with  the  dead  Nina  between  himself  and  the 
weeping  Edith,  while  the  wild  thought  swept  over  him, 
"  Is  it  right  that  I  should  send  her  away  ?  "  but  only  for 
an  instant,  and  stretching  his  hand  across  the  grave,  he 
laid  it  on  the  head  of  the  kneeling  girl,  giving  her  th« 
blessing  she  so  much  craved,  and  then  bidding  her  lcav« 
him. 


329 

"They  are  calling  to  you,"  he  added,  as  he  heard  Vutor'a 
voice  in  the  distance,  and  struggling  to  her  feet,  Edith 
started  to  go,  but  forgetting  all  sense  of  propriety  in  that 
di-eadful  parting,  she  turned  to  him  again  and  said, 

"  I  am  going,  Aithur,  but  I  must  ask  one  question.  It 
will  make  my  future  brighter  if  I  know  you  love  rne  still, 
be  it  ever  so  little.  Do  you,  Arthur,  and  when  you  know 
I  am  Richard's  wife  will  you  think  of  me  sometimes,  and 
pity  me,  too  ?  I  shall  need  it  so  much ! " 

Arthur  had  not  expected  this,  and  he  reeled  as  if  smit- 
ten with  a  heavy  blow.  Leaning  -for  support  against 
Petrea's  monument,  whence  Miggie's  name  had  been  ef- 
faced, he  gasped : 

"  God  help  me,  Edith.  You  should  have  spared  me  this. 
Do  I  love  you  ?  Oh  Edith,  alas,  alas !  Here  with  Nina, 
whom,  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  did  love  truly  at  the 
last  —  here  with  her,  I  say,  lying  dead  between  us,  I  swear 
to  you  that  never  was  maiden  loved  as  I  this  moment  love 
you ;  but  I  cannot  make  you  mine.  I  dare  not  prove  thus 
treacherous  to  Richard,  who  trusted  you  with  me,  and, 
Edith,  you  can  be  happy  with  him,  and  you  will.  You 
must  forget  that  I  ever  crossed  your  path,  thinking  of  me 
only  as  one  who  was  your  sister's  husband.  And  God 
will  give  you  strength  to  do  this  if  you  ask  it  of  him  aright 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  Edith.  That  cannot  be.  Across 
the  sea,  wherever  I  may  be,  I  shall  remember  you,  enshrin- 
ing your  memory  in  my  heart,  together  with  Xina,  whom 
I  so  much  wish  I  had  loved  earlier,  and  so  have  saved  us 
both  from  pain.  And  now  go  —  go  back  to  Collingvrood, 
and  keep  your  vow  to  Richard.  He  is  one  of  God's 
noblest  works,  an  almost  perfect  man.  You  will  learn  to 
love  him.  You  will  be  happy.  Do  not  write  to  me  til', 
it  is  over,  then  send  your  cards,  and  I  shall  know  'tis  done. 
Farewell,  my  sister  —  farewell  forever." 

Without  a  word  of  reply  Edith  moved  away,  nor  cast 
a  backward  glance  at  the  faint,  sick  man,  who  leaned  Ms 


330  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

burning  forehead  against  the  gleaming  marble ;  while  drop 
after  drop  of  perspiration  fell  upon  the  ground,  but  brought 
him  no  relief.  He  heard  the  carriage  wheels  as  they  rolled 
from  the  door,  and  the  sound  seemed  grinding  his  life  to 
atoms,  for  by  that  token  he  knew  that  Edith  was  gone  — - 
that  to  him  there  was  nothing  left  save  the  little  mound 
at  his  feet  and  the  memory  of  his  broken  lily  who  slept 
beneath  it.  How  he  wanted  her  now  —  wanted  his  child- 
ish Nina  —  his  fair  girl- wife,  to  comfort  him.  But  it 
could  not  be.  Nina  was  dead  —  her  sweet,  bird-like  voice 
was  hushed ;  it  would  never  meet  his  listening  ear  again, 
and  for  him  there  was  nothing  left  save  the  wailing  wind 
to  whisper  sadly  to  him  as  she  was  wont  to  do,  "  Poor 
Arthur  boy,  poor  Arthur  bov." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

HOME. 

Oh,  what  a  change  it  was  from  sunny  Florida  to  bleak 
New  England,  and  how  both  Edith  and  Victor  shivered 
when,  arrived  at  the  last  stage  of  their  journey,  they  look- 
ed out  upon  the  snow-clad  hills  and  leafless  trees  which 
stood  out  so  bare  and  brown  against  the  winter  sky.  West 
Shannondale  !•  the  brakeman  shouted,  and  Edith  drew  her 
furs  around  her,  for  in  a  few  moments  more  their  own  sta- 
tion would  be  reached. 

"The  river  is  frozen ;  it  must  be  very  cold,"  said  Victor, 
jx>inling  to  the  blue-black  stream,  skirnmered  over  with  a 
thin  coat  of  ice. 

"Yes,  very,  very  cold,"  and  Edith  felt  the  meaning  >i 
the  word  In  more  senses  than  one. 

Why  wasn't  she  glad  to  be  home  again  ?  Why  did  her 
thoughts  cling  so  to  distant  Sunnybank,  or  her  heart  die 


HOME.  S31 

within  her  as  wayiuark  after  waymark  told  her  Colling- 
wood  was  near  ?  Alas  !  she  was  not  a  loving,  eager  bride 
elect,  returning  to  the  arms  of  her  beloved,  but  a  shrinking, 
hopeless,  desolate  woman,  going  back  to  meet  the  destiny 
she  dared  not  avoid.  The  change  was  all  in  herself,  for 
the  day  was  no  colder,  the  clouds  no  greyer,  the  setting  < 
sun  no  paler  than  New  England  wintry  days  and  clouds* 
and  suns  are  wont  to  be.  Collingwood  was  just  the  same, 
and  its  mssive  walls  rose  as  proudly  amid  the  dark  s^r- 
greens  around  it  as  they  had  done  in  fimes  gone  by,  w  m?  a 
to  the  little  orphan  it  seemed  a  second  Paradise.  Away 
to  the  right  lay  Grassy  Spring,  the  twilight  shadows  gath- 
ering around  it,  piles  of  snow  resting  on  its  roof,  and  a  thin 
wreath  of  smoke  curling  from  a  single  chimney  in  tha 
rear. 

All  this  Edith  saw  as  in  the  village  omnibus  she  was 
driven  toward  home.  Richard  was  not  expecting  them 
until  the  morrow,  and  thus  no  new  fires  were  kindled,  no 
welcoming  lights  hung  out,  and  the  house  was  unusually 
gloomy  and  dark.  During  Edith's  absence  Richard  had 
staid  mostly  in  the  library,  and  there  he  was  sitting  now, 
with  his  hands  folded  together  in  that  peculiarly  helpless 
way  which  characterized  all  his  motions.  He  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels,  the  banging  of  trunks,  and  then  his  ear 
caught  a  footstep  it  knew  full  well,  a  slow,  shuffling  tread, 
but  Edith's  still,  and  out  into  the  silent  hall  he  groped  his 
way,  watching  there  until  she  came. 

How  he  hugged  her  to  his  bosom  —  never  heeding  that 
§he  gave  him  back  but  one  answering  kiss,  a  cold,  a  frozen 
thing,  which  would  not  thaw  even  after  it  touched  Ids  lips,  so 
full  of  life  and  warmth.  Poor,  deluded  man !  he  fancied  that 
the  tears  he  felt  upon  his  face  were  tears  of  joy  at  being 
home  again  ;  but  das!  alas  !  they  were  tears  wrung  out  by 
a  feeling  of  dreary  home-sickness  —  a  longing  to  be  some- 
where else  —  to  have  some  other  one  than  Richard  chafing 
her  cold  hands  and  calling  her  pet  names.  He  looked  old- 


882  DARKNESS   AND    DAYLIGHT. 

er,  too,  than  he  used  to  do,  and  Edith  thought  of  what 
he  once  had  said  about  her  seeing  the  work  of  decay  go 
on  in  him  while  she  yet  was  young  and  vigorous.  Still 
her  voice  was  natural  as  she  answered  his  many  questions 
and  greeted  Mrs.  Matson  who  caine  in  to  see  her  as  soon  as 
she  heard  of  her  arrival. 

"  In  mourning !  "  the  latter  exclaimed,  as  with  womanly 
curiosity  she  inspected  Edith's  dress- 
Richard  started,  and  putting  his  hand  to  Edith's  neck, 
felt  that  her  collar  was  of  crape,  and  a  shadow  passed  over 
his  face.  He  liked  to  think  of  her  as  a  bright  plumaged 
bird,  not  as  sombre-hued  and  wearing  the  habiliments 
which  come  only  from  some  grave. 

"  Was  it  necessary  that  my  darling  should  carry  her 
love  for  a  stranger  quite  so  far  as  this  ?  "  he  asked.  Need 
you  have  dressed  in  black  ?  " 

Without  meaning  it,  his  tone  implied  reproach,  and  it 
cut  Edith  cruelly,  making  her  wish  that  she  had  told  him 
all,  when  she  wrote  that  she  was  coming  home. 

"  Oh,  Richard,"  she  cried,  "don't  chide  me  for  these  out- 
ward tokens  of  sorrow.  Nina,  dear,  darling  Nina,  was  my 
sister  —  my  father's  child.  Temple  was  only  a  name  he 
assumed  to  avoid  arrest,  so  it  all  got  wrong.  Everything 
is  wrong,"  and  Edith  sobbed  impetuously,  while  Richard 
essayed  to  comfort  her. 

The  dress  of  black  was  not  displeasing  to  him  now,  and 
he  passed  his  hands  caressingly  over  its  heavy  folds  as  if 
to  ask  forgiveness  for  having  said  aught  against  it. 

Gradually  Edith  grew  calm,  and  after  she  had  met  the 
servants,  and  the  supper  she  could  not  taste  was  over,  she 
repeated  to  Richard  the  story  she  had  heard  from  Marie, 
who  had  stopped  for  a  time  in  New  York  to  visit  her 
sister. 

A  long  time  they  sat  together  that  night,  while  Richard 
told  her  how  lonely  he  had  been  without  her,  and  asked 
her  many  questions  of  Nina's  last  days. 


HOME.  333 

"  Did  she  send  no  message  to  me  ?"  he  said.  She  used 
to  like  me,  I  fancied." 

Edith  did  not  know  how  terrible  a  message  Nina  had 
sent  to  him,  and  she  replied,  "  She  talked  of  you  a  great 
deal,  but  I  do  not  remember  any  particular  word.  I  told 
tier  I  was  to  be  your  wife,"  and  Edith's  voice  trembled, 
for  this  was  but  a  prelude  to  what  she  meant  to  say  ere 
aaa  bade  him  good  night.  She  should  breathe  so  much 
more  freely  if  she  knew  her  bridal  was  not  so  near,  and 
her  sister's  death  was  surely  a  sufficient  reason  for  defer- 
ring it. 

Summoning  all  her  courage,  she  arose,  and  sitting  on 
Richard's  knee,  buttoned  and  unbuttoned  his  coat  in  a 
kind  of  abstracted  manner,  while  she  asked  if  it  might  be 
so.  "I  know  I  promised  for  New  Year's  night,"  she  said, 
"  but  little  Nina  died  so  recently  and  I  loved  her  so  much. 
May  it  be  put  off,  Richard  — put  over  until  June  ?  " 

Edith  had  not  thought  of  this  in  Florida,  but  here  at 
home,  it  came  to  her  like  succor  to  the  drowning,  and  she 
anxiously  awaited  Richard's  answer. 

A  frown  for  an  instant  darkened  his  fine  features,  fox 
he  did  not  like  this  second  deferring  the  day,  but  he  was 
too  unselfish  to  oppose  it,  and  he  answered, 

"  Yes,  daiiing,  if  you  will  have  it  so.  It  may  be  better 
to  wait  at  least  six  months,  shall  it  be  in  June,  the  fifteenth 
say?" 

Edith  was  satisfied  with  this,  and  when  they  parted  her 
heart  was  lighted  of  a  heavy  load,  for  six  months  seemed 
to  hei  a  great,  great  while. 

The  next  day  when  Grace  came  up  to  call  on  Edith,  and 
was  told  of  the  change,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  for 
she  knew  that  by  this  delay  Richard  stood  far  less  chance 
o!  ever  calling  Edith  his  wife.  But  she  merely  said  it 
was  well,  congratulating  Edith  upon  her  good  fortune  in 
beinsr  an  heiress,  and  asking  many  questions  about  Arthui 
and  Nina,  both,  anil  at  last  taking  her  leave  without  a 


334  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

hint  as  to  her  suspicions  of  the  future.  To  Edith  th« 
idea  had  never  occurred.  She  should  marry  Richard  of 
course,  and  nothing  could  happen  to  defer  the  day  a  third 
time.  So  she  said  at  least  to  Victor,  when  she  told  him 
of  the  arrangement,  and  with  a  very  expressive  whistle, 
Victor,  too,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  thinking,  that  possibly 
lie  need  not  read  Nina's  letter  after  all.  He  would  rather 
not  if  it  could  be  avoided,  for  he  knew  how  keen  the  pang 
it  would  inflict  upon  his  noble  master,  and  he  would  not 
add  one  unnecessary  drop  to  the  cup  of  sorrow  he  saw 
preparing  for  poor  Richard. 

After  a  few  days  of  listless  languor  and  pining  home- 
sickness, Edith  settled  into  her  olden  routine  of  reading, 
talking  and  singing  to  Richard,  who  thought  himself  hap- 
py even  though  she  did  not  caress  him  as  often  as  she 
used  to  do,  and  was  sometimes  impatient  and  even  ill- 
natured  towards  him. 

"  She  mourns  so  much  for  Nina  was  the  excuse  which 
Richard  wrote  down  in  his  heart  for  all  her  sins,  either  of 
omission  or  commission ;  and  in  a  measure  he  was  right. 

Edith  did  mourn  for  sweet  little  Nina,  but  mourned  not 
half  so  much  for  her  as  for  the  hopes  forever  fled. —  for 
Arthur,  at  whose  silence  she  greatly  marvelled,  thinking 
sometimes  that  she  would  write  to  him  as  to  her  brother, 
and  then  shrinking  from  the  task  because  she  knew  not 
what  to  say. 

Spite  of  her  feelings  the  six  months  she  had  thought  so 
long  were  passing  far  too  rapidly  to  suit  her.  Time  lin- 
gers for  no  one,  and  January  glided  into  February,  Feb- 
ruary into  March,  whose  melting  snows  and  wailing  winds 
gave  place  at  last  to  April,  and  then  again  the  people  of 
Shannondale  began  to  talk  of  "that  wedding,"  fixed  for 
the  15th  of  June.  Marie  had  became  domesticated  at 
Collingwood,  but  the  negroes,  who  now  called  Edith  mis 
tress,  still  remained  at  Grassy  Spring,  waiting  until  Arthur 
should  come,  or  some  message  be  received  from  him.  It 


ROME.  335 

was  four  months  now  since  Edith  left  Sunnybank,  and  in 
all  that  time  no  tidings  had  come  to  her  from  Arthur. 
Grace's  letters  were  unanswered,  and  Grace  heiself  was 
beginning  to  feel  alarmed,  when,  one  afternoon,  Victor 
called  Edith  to  an  upper  balcony  and  pointing  in  the 
dif  ect!  on  of  Grassy  Spring,  bade  her  look  where  the  grace- 
ful columns  of  smoke  were  rising  from  all  its  chimneys, 
while  its  windows  were  opened  wide,  and  the  servants 
hurried  in  and  out,  seemingly  big  with  some  important 
event. 

"  Saddle  Bedouin,"  said  Edith,  more  excited  than  she 
had  deemed  it  possible  for  her  to  be.  "  Mr.  St.  Claire  must 
be  expected.  I  am  going  down  to  see." 

Victor  obeyed,  and  without  a  word  to  Richard,  Edith 
was  soon  galloping  off  toward  Grassy  Spring,  where  she 
found  Grace  hurriedly  giving  orders  to  the  delighted 
blacks,  who  tumbled  over  each  other  in  their  zeal  to  have 
everything  in  readiness  for  "  Marster  Arthur."  He  was 
coming  that  night,  so  Grace  had  told  them,  she  having 
received  a  telegram  that  morning  from  New  York,  togeth- 
er with  a  letter. 

"  He  started  North  the  first  of  Feb."  she  said  to  Edith, 
"  taking  Richmond  on  the  way,  and  has  been  detained 
there  ever  since  by  sickness.  He  is  very  feeble  yet,  but 
is  anxious  to  see  us  all.  He  has  received  no  letters  from 
me,  it  seems,  and  thinks  you  are  married." 

Edith  turned  very  white  for  a  moment,  and  then  there 
burned  upon  her  cheek  a  round,  red  spot,  induced  by  the 
feeling  that  the  believing  she  was  married  had  been  the 
bn  mediate  cause  of  Arthur's  illness.  Edith  was  no  lon- 
ger the  pale,  listless  woman  who  moved  so  like  a  breathing 
Statue  around  Collingwood,  but  a  flashed,  excited  creature, 
flitting  from  room  to  room,  and  entering  heart  and  soul 
into  Grace's  plans  for  having  everything  about  the  house 
as  cheerful  and  homelike  as  possible  for  the  invalid.  She 
ihould  stay  to  welcome  him,  too,  she  said,  bidding  one  of 


896  DARKNESS   ANL    DAYLIGHT. 

the  negroes  put  Bedouin  in  the  stable  and  then  go  up  to 
(  ollingwood  to  tell  Richard  where  she  was. 

Arthur  was  indeed  coming  to  Grassy  Spring,  brought 
thither  by  the  knowing  that  something  must  be  done  with 
the  place  ere  he  went  to  Europe  as  he  intended  doing,  and 
l>y  the  feverish  desire  to  see  Edith  once  more  even  though 
ibe  were  the  wife  of  Richard,  as  he  supposed  her  to  be. 
Grace's  first  letter  had  been  lost,  and  as  he  had  been  some 
weeks  on  the  way  he  knew  nothing  of  matters  at  Colling- 
wood,  though  occasionally  there  crept  into  his  heart  a 
throb  of  hope  that  possibly  for  Nina's  sake  the  marriage 
had  been  deferred  and  Edith  might  be  Edith  Hastings 
still.  It  was  very  sad  coming  back  to  the  spot  so  fraught 
with  memories  of  Nina,  and  this  it  was  in  part  which 
made  him  look  so  pale  and  haggard  when  at  last  he  stood 
within  the  hall  and  was  met  by  Grace,  who  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  at  seeing  him  so  changed. 

"I  am  very  tired,"  he  said,  with  the  tone  and  air  of  an 
invalid,  "  Let  me  rest  in  the  library  awhile,  before  I  see 
the  negroes.  Their  noise  will  disturb  me,"  and  he  walked 
into  the  very  room  where  Edith  stood  waiting  for  him. 

She  had  intended  to  meet  him  as  a  brother,  the  husband 
of  her  sister,  but  the  sight  of  his  white,  suffering  face 
swept  her  calmness  all  away,  and  with  a  burst  of  tears  she 
cried,  "  Oh,  Arthur,  Arthur,  I  did  not  think'  you  had 
been  so  sick.  Why  did  you  not  let  us  know;  I  would 
have  come  to  you,"  and  she  brought  herself  the  arm-chair 
which  he  took,  smiling  faintly  upon  her  and  saying, 

u  It  was  bad  businesa  being  sick  at  a  hotel,  and  I  did 
•ometimes  wish  you  were  there,  but  of  course  I  could  not 
eipect  you  to  leave  your  husband.  How  is  he?" 

Edith  could  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart  and  feel  the 
blood  tingling  her  cheeks  as  she  replied,  "  You  mean 
Richard,  but  he  is  not  my  husband.  He " 

Quickly,  eagerly  Arthur  looked  up,  the  expression  of 
his  face  speaking  volumes  of  joy,  surprise,  and  even  hope, 


HOME.  S37 

but  all  this  faded  away,  leaving  him  paler,  sicker  looking 
than  before,  as  Edith  continued, 

"  The  marriage  was  a  second  time  deferred  on  account 
of  Nina's  death.  It  will  take  place  in  June." 

Grace  had  left  the  room  and  an  awkward  silence  ensued 
during  which  Arthur  looked  absently  into  the  fire,  while 
Edith  gazed  out  upon  the  darkening  sky,  wondering  if 
life  would  always  be  as  hard  to  bear  as  now,  and  half 
wishing  that  Arthur  St.  Claire  had  staid  at  Sunnybank 
until  the  worst  was  over. 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  outside,  and  Edith  heard 
Richard  as  he  passed  into  the  hall.  He  had  received  her 
message,  and  thinking  it  proper  for  him  to  welcome  Mr. 
St.  Claire,  he  had  come  to  Grassy  Spring  to  do  so,  as  well 
as  to  escort  Edith  home.  Richard  could  not  see  how 
much  Arthur  was  changed,  but  his  quick  ear  detected  the 
weak,  tremulous  tones  of  the  voice,  which  tried  to  greet 
him  steadily,  and  so  the  conversation  turned  first  upon 
Arthur's  recent  illness,  and  then  upon  Nina,  until  at  last,  as 
Richard  rose  to  leave,  he  laid  his  arm  across  Edith's  shoul- 
der and  said  playfully,  "  You  know  of  course,  that  what 
you  predicted,  when  years  ago  you  asked  me  to  take  a 
certain  little  girl,  is  coming  true.  Edith  has  promised 
to  be  my  wife.  You  will  surely  remain  at  Grassy  Spring 
through  the  summer,  and  so  be  present  at  our  wedding  on 
the  15th  of  June.  I  invite  you  now." 

"  Thank  you,"  was  all  Arthur  could  say,  as  with  his  ac- 
customed politeness  he  arose  to  bid  his  guests  good  night; 
but  his  lip  quivered  as  he  said  it,  arid  his  eye  never  for  a 
moment  rested  upon  Edith,  who  led  Richard  in  silence 
to  the  carriage,  feeling  that  all  she  loved  in  the  wide  world 
was  left  there  in  the  little  library  where  the  light  was 
shining,  and  where,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  Grace 
was  ministering  to  the  half  fainting  Arthur. 

o  o 

The  sight  of  Edith  and  Richard  had  affected  him  more 
than  he  supposed  it  would,  but  the  worst  was  over  now, 
16 


838  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

and  as  he  daily  grew  stronger  in  the  bracing  northern  air 
he  felt  more  and  more  competent  to  meet  what  lay  before 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


LETTER. 

After  a  week  or  two  had  passed,  Arthur  went  occasion- 
ally to  Collingwood,  where  Richard  greeted  him  most  cor- 
dially, urging  him  to  come  more  frequently  and  wonder- 
ing why  he  always  seemed  in  so  much  haste  to  get  away. 
On  the  occasion  of  these  visits  Edith  usually  kept  out  of 
the  way,  avoiding  him  so  studiously  that  Richard  began 
to  fear  she  might  perhaps  dislike  him,  and  he  resolved  to 
ask  her  the  first  good  opportunity.  But  Edith  avoided 
him,  too,  never  coming  now  to  sit  with  him  alone  ;  some- 
body must  always  be  present  when  she  was  with  him,  else 
had  her  bursting  heart  betrayed  the  secret  telling  so  fear- 
fully upon  her.  Oh,  how  hateful  to  her  were  the  prepar- 
ations for  her  bridal,  which  had  commenced  on  a  most 
magnificent  scale,  for  Richard,  after  waiting  so  long,  would 
have  a  grand  wedding,  and  that  all  who  chose  might  wit- 
ness the  ceremony,  it  was  to  be  performed  in  the  church, 
from  which  the  guests  would  accompany  him  back  to  Col- 
lingwood. 

All  Shannondale  was  interested,  and  the  most  extrava- 
gant stories  were  set  afloat,  not  only  concerning  the  trous- 
eau  of  the  bride,  but  the  bride  herself.  What  ailed  her? 
What  made  her  so  cold,  so  white,  so  proudly  reserved,  so 
like  a  walking  ghost  ?  She,  who  had  been  so  full  of  vigor- 
ous life,  so  merry,  so  light-hearted.  Could  it  be  the  mourn. 
ing  for  sweet  little  Nina,  or  was  it  -  ? 

And  here  the  knot  of  gossippers,  at  the  corner  of  the 


NINA'S  LETTER.  339 

streets,  or  in  the  stores,  or  in  the  parlors  at  home,  would 
draw  more  closely  together  as  they  whispered, 

"  Does  she  love  Richard  Harrington  as  she  ought?  Is 
not  her  heart  given  rather  to  the  younger,  handsomer 
St.  Claire?" 

How  they  pitied  her  if  it  were  so,  and  how  curious]  y 
they  watched  her  whenever  she  appeared  in  their  midst, 
remarking  every  action,  and  construing  it  according  to 
their  convictions. 

Victor,  too,  was  on  the  alert,  and  fully  aware  of  the 
public  feeling.  Day  after  day  he  watched  his  young  mis- 
tress, following  her  when  she  left  the  house  alone,  and 
seeing  her  more  than  once  when  in  the  Deering  woods 
she  laid  her  face  in  the  springing  grass  and  prayed  that 
sl.e  might  die.  But  for  her  promise,  sworn  to  Richard, 
she  would  have  gone  to  him,  and  kneeling  at  his  feet  beg- 
ged him  to  release  her  from  her  vow,  and  so  spare  her  the 
dreadful  trial  from  which  she  shrank  more  and  more  as 
she  saw  it  fast  approaching. 

Edith  was  almost  crazy,  and  Arthur,  whenever  he 
chanced  to  meet  her,  marvelled  at  the  change  since  he  saw 
her  last.  Once  he,  too,  thought  of  appealing  to  Rich- 
ard to  save  her  from  so  sad  a  fate  as  that  of  an  unloving 
wife,  but  he  would  not  interfere,  lest  by  so  doing  he  should 
err  again,  and  so  in  dreary  despair,  which  each  day  grew 
blacker  and  more  hopeless,  Edith  was  left  alone,  until  Vic- 
tor roused  in  her  behalf,  and  without  allowing  himself  timo 
to  reflect,  sought  his  master's  presence,  bearing  with  him 
Nina's  letter,  and  the  soiled  sheet  on  which  Richard  had 
unwittingly  scratched  out  Arthur's  marriage. 

It  was  a  warm,  balmy  afternoon,  and  through  the  open 
windows  of  the  library,  the  south  wind  came  stealing  in, 
laden  with  the  perfume  of  the  pink-tinted  apple  blossoms, 
and  speaking  to  the  blind  man  of  the  long  ago,  when  it 
was  his  to  see  the  budding  beauties  now  shut  out  from 
his  eight.  The  hum  of  the  honey-bee  was  hoard,  and  tha 


840  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

air  wns  rife  with  the  sweet  sounds  of  later  spring.  On  the 
branch  of  a  tree  without,  a  robin  was  trilling  a  song.  It 
had  sung  there  all  the  morning,  and  now  it  had  come  back 
agiin,  singing  a  second  time  to  Richard,  who  thought  of 
tlie  soft  nest  up  in  the  old  maple,  and  likened  that  robin 
and  its  mate  to  himself  and  Edith,  his  own  singing-bird. 

But  why  linger  so  long  over  that  May-day  which  Rich, 
ard  remembered  through  many,  many  future  years,  grow- 
ing  faint  and  sick  as  often  as  the  spring  brought  back  the 
apple-blossom  perfume  or  the  song  of  mated  robins. 
It  is,  alas,  that  we  shrink  as  Victor  did  from  the  task 
imposed,  that,  like  him,  we  dread  the  blow  which  will 
strike  at  the  root  of  Richard's  very  life,  and  we  approach 
tearfully,  pityingly,  half  remorsefully,  as  we  stand  some- 
times by  a  sunken  grave,  .doubting  whether  our  conduct 
to  the  dead  were  always  right  and  just.  So  Victor  felt, 
as  he  drew  near  to  Richard ;  and  sitting  down  beside  him 
said, 

"  Can  I  talk  with  you  awhile  about  Miss  Hastings  ?  " 

Richard  started.  Victor  had  come  to  tell  him  she  was 
sick,  and  he  asked  if  it  were  not  so. 

"  Something  has  ailed  her  of  late,"  he  said. 

"  She  is  greatly  changed  since  Nina's  death.  She  mourns 
much  for  her  sister." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Victor ;  "  she  loved  Nina  dearly,  but  it 
is  more  than  this  which  ails  her.  God  forbid  that  I  should 
unnecessarily  wound  you,  Mr.  Harrington,  but  I  think  it 
right  for  you  to  know." 

The  dark  face,  shaded  with  the  long  beard,  was  very 
white  now,  and  the  sightless  eyes  had  in  them  a  look  of 
terror  as  Richard  asked, 

«  What  is  it,  Victor  ?     Tell  me." 

"  Come  to  the  sofa  first,"  Victor  rejoined,  feeling  intui- 
tively that  he  was  safer  there  than  in  that  high  arm  chair, 
and  with  unusual  tenderness  he  led  his  master  to  the  spot, 
then  sitting  down  beside  him,  he  continued,  "Do  you  re- 


NINA'S  LETTER.  341 

member  Nina  once  made  you  write  something  upon  a  sheet 
of  paper,  and  that  you  bade  me  ascertain  what  it  was  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  answered  Richard,  "  you  told  me 
you  had  not  read  it,  and  imputing  it  to  some  crazy  fancy  of 
no  importance,  I  gave  it  no  more  thought.  What  of  it, 
Victor  ?r/ 

"I  had  not  read  it  then,"  answered  Victor,  "butlhnvo 
done  so  since.  I  have  it  in  my  possession  —  here  in  my 
hand.  "Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ?  " 

Richard  nodded,  and  Victor  read  aloud :  "  I,  the  blind 
man,  Richard  Harrington,  do  hereby  solemnly  swear  that 
the  marriage  of  Arthur  St.  Claire  and  Nina  Bernard,  per- 
formed by  me  and  at  my  house,  is  null  and  void." 

"  What !  Read  it  again !  It  cannot  be  that  I  heard 
aright,"  and  Richard  listened  while  Victor  repeated  the 
lines.  "  Arthur  and  Nina !  Was  she  the  young  girl  wife, 
he,  the  boy  husband,  who  came  to  me  that  night  ?  "  Rich- 
ard exclaimed.  "  Why  have  I  never  known  of  this  be- 
fore? Why  did  Edith  keep  it  from  me?  Say,  Victor,"  and 
again  Richard  listened,  this  time,  oh,  how  eagerly,  while 
Victor  told  him  Avhat  he  knew  of  that  fatal  marriage,  kept 
so  long  a  secret,  and  as  he  listened,  the  beaded  dropa 
stood  thickly  upon  his  forehead  and  gathered  around  his 
ashen  lips,  for  Victor  purposely  let  fall  a  note  of  warning 
which  shot  through  the  quivering  nerves  of  the  blind  man 
like  a  barbed  burning  arrow,  wringing  from  him  the  piteous 

cry> 

"  Oh,  Victor,  Victor,  does  she  —  does  Edith  love  Ar- 
thur ?  Has  she  loved  him  all  the  time  ?  Is  it  this  which 
makes  her  voice  so  sad,  her  step  so  slow?  Speak  —  bet- 
ter that  I  know  it  now  than  after  'tis  too  late.  What 
other  paper  is  it  you  are  unfolding  ?  " 

"  'Tis  a  letter  from  Nina  to  you.     Can  you  hear  it  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  tell  me  first  all  you  know.  Don't  withhold 
a  single  thing.  I  would  hear  the  whole." 

So  Victor  told  him  what  he  knew  up  to  the  time  of 


342  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

their  going  to  Florida ;  and  then,  opening  Nina's  letter,  h* 
began  to  read,  pausing,  occasionally,  to  ask  if  he  should 
slop. 

"  No,  no  ;   go  on ! "  Richard  whispered,  hoarsely,  his 
head  dropping  lower  and  lower,  until  the  face  was  hidden 
from  view  and  the  chin  rested  upon  the  chest,  which  heav 
ed  with  every  labored  breath. 

Once  at  the  words,  "  When  you  hear  this  Nina'll  be 
there  with  you.  She'll  sit  upon  your  knee  and  wind  her 
arms  around  your  neck  "  —  he  started,  and  seemed  to  be 
thrusting  something  from  his  lap  —  something  which  made 
him  shiver.  Was  it  Nina?  He  thought  so,  and  strove  to 
push  her  ofij  but  when  Victor  read,  "  She  will  comfort  you 
when  the  great  cry  comes  in  —  the  crash  like  the  breaking 
up  of  the  ice  in  the  Northern  ponds,"  he  ceased  to  strug- 
gle, and  Victor  involuntarily  stopped  when  he  saw  the  long 
arms  twine  themselves  as  it  were  around  an  invisible  form. 
Then  he  commenced  again :  "And  when  you  feel  yourself 
broken  up  like  they  are  in  the  spring,  listen  and  you'll 
hear  me  whispering,  'Poor  Richard!  I  pity  you  so  much, 
and  I'll  kiss  your  tears  away.' " 

Did  he  hear  her  ?  hear  Nina  whispering  comfort  to  hia 
poor  bruised  heart  ?  We  cannot  tell.  We  only  know  he 
bent  his  ear  lower,  as  if  to  catch  the  faintest  breath ;  but 
alas!  there  were  no  tears  to  kiss  away.  The  blind  eyes 
could  not  weep  —  they  were  too  hot,  too  dry  for  that  — 
and  blood-red  rings  of  fire  danced  before  them  as  they 
did  when  Nina  came  to  him  with  the  startling  news  that 
Miggie  was  dead  in  the  Deering  woods. 

Victor  was  reading  now  about  these  woods  and  the 
scene  enacted  there,  and  Richard  understood  it  all,  even 
to  the  reason  why  Edith  had  persisted  in  being  his  wife. 
The  deepest  waters  run  silently,  it  is  said,  and  so,  perhaps, 
the  strongest  heart  when  crushed  to  atoms  lies  still  as 
death,  aud  gives  outwardly  no  token  of  its  anguish. 
True  it  is  that  Richard  neither  moaned,  nor  moved,  nor 


NINA'S  LETTER.  343 

spoke ;  only  the  head  drooped  lower,  while  the  arms  clung 
tightly  to  the  fancied  form  he  held,  as  if  between  himself 
and  Nina,  wherever  she  was  that  dreary  day,  there  was  a 
connecting  link  of  sympathy  which  pervaded  his  whole 
being,  and  so  prevented  him  from  dying  outright  as  ha 
wished  he  could. 

It  wa>  finished  at  last,  Nina's  letter  —  and  it  seemed  to 
Ri chard  as  if  the  three  kinds  of  darkness,  of  which  she 
told  him,  had  indeed  settled  down  upon  him,  so  confused 
was  his  brain,  so  crushed  his  heart,  and  so  doubly  black 
his  blindness.  He  looked  to  Victor  like  some  great  oak, 
scathed  and  blasted  with  one  fell  blow,  and  he  was  tremb- 
ling for  the  result,  when  the  lips  moved  and  he  caught  the 
words,  "  Leave  me  little  Snow  Drop.  Go  back  to  Heaven, 
whence  you  came.  The  blind  man  will  do  right." 

Slowly  then  the  arms  unclosed,  and  as  if  imbued  with 
sight,  the  red  eyes  followed  something  to  the  open  win- 
dow and  out  into  the  bright  sunshine  beyond ;  then  they 
turned  to  Victor,  and  a  smile  broke  over  the  stormy  fea- 
tures as  Richard  whispered : 

"  Nina's  gone !     Now  take  me  to  my  room." 

Across  the  threshold  Victor  led  the  half-fainting  man, 
meeting  with  no  one  until  his  master's  chamber  was  reach- 
ed, when  Edith  came  through  the  hall,  and,  glancing  in, 
saw  the  white  face  on  the  pillow,  where  Victor  had  laid 
his  master  down,  Richard  heard  her  step,  and  said,  faintly, 
"  Keep  her  off;  I  cannot  bear  it  yet ! "  But  even  while 
he  spoke  Edith  was  there  beside  him,  asking,  in  much 
alarm,  what  was  the  matter.  She  did  not  observe  how' 
Richard  shuddered  at  the  sound  of  her  voice ;  she  only 
thought  that  he  was  very  ill,  and,  with  every  womanly, 
tender  feeling  aroused,  she  bent  over  him  and  pressed 
upun  his  lips  a  kiss  which  burned  him  like  a  coal  of  fire. 
She  must  not  kiss  him  now,  and,  putting  up  his  hands  with 
the  feebleness  of  a  little  child,  he  cried  piteously, 

"  Don't  Edith,  don't !  Please  leave  me  for  a  time.  I'd 
rather  be  alone  1 " 


344  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

She  obeyed  him  then,  and  went  slowly  out,  wondering 
what  it  was  which  had  so  affected  him  as  to  make  even 
her  presence  undesirable. 

Meantime,  with  hands  pressed  over  his  aching  eyes,  to 
shut  out,  if  possible,  the  rings  of  fire  still  dancing  befoiy 
them,  Richard  Harrington  thought  of  all  that  was  past 
and  of  what  was  yet  to  come. 

"  How  can  I  lose  her  now,"  he  moaned.  "  Why  didn't 
she  tell  me  at  the  first  ?  It  would  not  then  have  been 
half  so  bad.  Oh,  Edith,  my  lost  Edith.  You  have  not 
been  all  guiltless  in  this  matter.  The  bird  I  took  to  my 
bosom  has  struck  me  at  last  with  its  talons,  and  struck  so 
deep.  Oh,  how  it  aches,  how  it  aches,  and  still  I  love  her 
just  the  same ;  aye,  love  her  more,  now  that  I  know  she 
must  not  be  mine.  Edith,  oh,  my  Edith ! " 

Then  Richard's  thoughts  turned  upon  Arthur.  He 
must  talk  with  him,  and  he  could  not  meet  him  there  at 
Collingwood.  There  were  too  many  curious  eyes  to  see, 
too  many  ears  to  listen.  At  Grassy  Spring  they  would 
be  more  retired,  and  thither  he  would  go,  that  very  night. 
He  never  should  sleep  again  until  he  heard  from  Arthur's 
own  lips  a  confirmation  of  the  cruel  story.  He  could  not 
ask  Edith.  Her  voice  would  stir  his  heart-strings  with  a 
keener,  deeper  agony  than  he  was  enduring  now.  But  to 
Arthur  he  could  speak  openly,  and  then  too  —  Richard 
was  loth  to  confess  it,  even  to  himself,  but  it  was,  never 
theless,  true  —  Arthur,  though  a  man,  was  gentler  than 
Edith.  He  would  be  more  careful,  more  tender,  and  while 
Edith  might  confirm  the  whole  with  one  of  her  wild,  im- 
pulsive outbursts,  Arthur  would  reach  the  same  point 
gradually  and  less  painfully. 

"  Order  the  carriage,  Victor,"  he  said,  as  it  was  growing 
dark  in  the  room.  "  I  am  going  to  Grassy  Spring." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Victor  attempted  to  persuade  him 
to  wait  until  the  morrow.  Richard  was  determined,  and 
When  Edith  came  fi'om  her  scarcely  tasted  supper,  she  saw 


THE   FIERY   TEST.  845 

the  carriage  as  it  passed  through  the  Collingwood  grounds 
on  its  way  to  Grassy  Spring,  but  little  dreamed  of  what 
would  be  ere  its  occupant  returned  to  them  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   FLEET    TEST. 

Arthni  was  not  at  home.  From  the  first  he  had  intend- 
ed  making  Edith  a  bridal  present  —  a  life-sized  portrait  of 
Nina,  which  he  knew  she  would  value  more  than  gifts  of 
gold  and  silver.  He  had  in  Iris  possession  a  daguerreotype 
taken  when  she  was  just  eighteen,  and  sent  to  him  by  her 
father  among  other  things,  of  which  Charlie  Hudson  was 
the  bearer.  From  this  he  would  have  a  picture  painted, 
employing  the  best  artist  in  Boston,  and  it  was  upon  this 
buisiness  that  he  left  Grassy  Spring  the  previous  day,  say- 
ing he  should  probably  be  home  upon  the  next  evening's 
train. 

Just  before  Richard  arrived  at  Grassy  Spring,  however, 
a  telegram  had  been  received  to  the  effect  that  Arthur 
was  detained  and  would  not  return  until  midnight.  This 
Phillis  repeated  to  Richard,  who  for  an  instant  stood  think- 
ing, and  then  said  to  Victor,  "  I  shall  stay.  I  cannot  go 
back  to  Collingwood  till  I  have  talked  with  Arthur.  But 
you  may  go.  I  would  rather  be  left  alone,  and,  Victor, 
you  will  undoubtedly  think  it  a  foolish  fancy,  but  I  must 
Bleep  in  Nina's  room.  There  will  be  something  soothing 
to  me  in  a  place  so  hallowed  by  her  former  presence. 
Ask  old  Phillis  if  I  may.  Tell  her  it  is  a  whim,  if  you 
like,  but  get  her  consent  at  all  hazards." 

Phillis'  consent  was  easily  won,  and  after  Victor  was 
gone,  Richard  sat  alone  in  the  parlor  until  nearly  eleven, 
when,  feeling  weary,  he  consented  to  retire,  and  Ike  J«d 
15* 


846  DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. 

him  up  the  two  flights  of,  stairs  into  the  Den,  where  h€ 
had  never  been  before. 

"  I  do  not  need  your  services,"  he  said  to  the  negro,  who 
departed,  having  first  lighted  the  gas  and  turned  it  on  to 
its  fullest  extent  out  of  compliment  to  the  blind  man. 

Gas  was  a  luxury  not  quite  two  years  old  in  Shannon- 
dale,  and  had  been  put  in  Arthur's  house  just  before  ho 
left  for  Florida.  Collingwood  being  further  from  the  vil- 
lage could  not  boast  of  it  yet  and  consequently  Richard 
was  not  as  much  accustomed  to  it  as  he  would  otherwise 
have  been.  On  this  occasion  he  did  not  know  that  it  was 
lighted  until,  as  he  stood  by  the  dressing  bureau,  he  felt 
the  hot  air  in  his  face.  Thinking  to  extinguish  the  light- 
by  turning  the  arm  of  the  fixture  just  as  he  remembered 
having  done  some  years-  before,  he  pushed  it  back  within 
an  inch  of  the  heavy  damask  curtain  which  now  shaded 
the  window,  and  too  much  absorbed  in  his  own  painful 
reflections  to  think  of  ascertaining  whether  the  light  was 
out  or  not,  he  groped  his  way  to  the  single  bed,  and  threw 
himself  upon  it,  giving  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 

It  was  strange  that  one  in  his  frame  of  mind  should 
sleep* but  nature  was  at  last  exhausted,  and  yielding  to  the 
influence  of  the  peculiar  atmosphere  slowly  pervading  the 
room,  he  fell  away  into  a  kind  of  lethargic  slumber,  while 
the  work  of  destruction  his  own  hand  had  prepared,  went 
silently  on  around  him.  First  the  crimson  curtain  turned 
a  yellowish  hue,  then  the  scorched  threads  dropped  apart 
and  the  flame  crept  into  the  inner  lining  of  cotton,  run- 
ning swiftly  through  it  until  the  whole  was  in  a  blazev 
and  the  wood-work  of  the  window,  charred  and  blackened, 
and  bore  the  deadly  element  still  onward,  but  away  from 
Ihe  unconscious  Richard,  leaving  that  portion  of  the  room 
unscathed,  and  for  the  present  safe.  Along  the  cornice 
under  the  lathing,  beneath  the  eaves  they  crept  —  those 
little'  fiery  tongues — lapping  at  each  other  in  wanton 
playfulness,  and  whispering  to  the  dry  old  shingles  on  the 
roof  above  of  the  mischief  they  meant  to  do. 


THE   FIERY    TEST.  347 

Half  an  hour  went  by,  and  from  the  three  towers  of 
Shannonclale  the  deep  toned  bells  rang  out  the  watchword 
of  alarm,  which  the  awakened  inhabitants  caught  up 
echoing  it  from  lip  to  lip  until  every  street  resounded  with 
the  fearful  cry,  "  Fire,  fire,  Grassy  Spring  is  all  on  fire." 

Then  the  two  engines  were  brought  from  their  shelter,  and 
•Went  rattling  through  the  town  and  out  into  the  country, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  to  where  the  little  forked 
tongues  had  grown  to  a  mammoth  size,  darting  their  vi- 
cious heads  from  beneath  the  rafters,  reaching  down  to 
touch  the  heated  panes,  hissing  defiance  at  the  people  be- 
low, and  rolling  over  the  doomed  building  until  billow  of 
flame  leaped  billow,  both  licking  up  in  their  mad  chase 
the  streams  of  water  poured  continually  upon  them. 

Away  to  the  eastward  the  night  express  came  thunder- 
ing on,  and  one  of  its  passengers,  looking  from  his  window, 
saw  the  lurid  blaze,  just  as  once  before  he  had  seen  the 
bonfire  crazy  Nina  kindled,  and  as  he  watched,  a  horrible 
fear  grew  strong  within  him,  manifesting  itself  at  last  in 
the  wild  outcry,  "  'Tis  Grassy  Spring,  'tis  Grassy  Spring." 

Long  before  the  train  reached  the  depot,  Arthur 
St.  Claire,  had  jumped  from  the  rear  car,  and  was  flying 
across  the  meadow  toward  his  burning  home,  knowing 
ere  he  reached  it  that  all  was  lost.  Timbers  were  falling, 
glass  w?-;i  melting,  windows  were  blazing,  while  at  every 
step  the  sparks  and  cinders  whirled  in  showers  around  his 
head. 

And  where  all  this  time  was  Richard?  Victor  was 
asking  ,hat  question  —  Victor,  just  arrived,  and  followed 
by  the  ivhole  household  of  Collingwood.  They  were  the 
last  to  waken,  and  they  came  with  headlong  haste ;  but 
Victor 's  longer  strides  outran  them  all,  and  when  Arthur 
appeared,  he  was  asking  frantically  for  his  master.  The  ne- 
groes in  their  fright  had  forgotten  him  entirely,  and  the 
first  words  which  greeted  Arthur  were,  "  Mr.  Harrington 
is  in  the  building ! " 


348  DARKNESS    AOT>    DATLIGHT. 


"Where?  where?"  he  shrieked,  darting  away,  and 
dragging  Victor  with  him. 

"  In  Nina's  room.  He  would  sleep  there,"  Victor  an- 
swered, and  with  another  cry  of  horror,  Arthur  sprang  to 
tbe  rear  of  the  building,  discovering  that  the  stairs  lead- 
ing to  the  Den  were  comparatively  unharmed  as  yet. 

"Who  will  save  him?"  he  screamed,  and  he  turned 
toward  Victor,  who  intuitively  drew  back  from  incurring 
the  great  peril. 

There  was  no  one  to  volunteer,  and  Arthur  said, 

"I  will  doit  myself." 

Instantly  a  hundred  voices  were  raised  against  it.  It 
were  worse  than  madness,  they  said.  The  fire  must  have 
caught  in  the  vicinity  of  that  room,  and  Richard  was 
assuredly  dead. 

"  He  may  not  be,  and  if  he  is  not,  I  will  save  him  or 
perish  too,"  was  Arthur's  heroic  reply,  as  he  sprang  up 
the  long  winding  stairs,  near  which  the  flames  were  roar- 
ing like  some  long  pent  up  volcano. 

He  reached  the  door  of  the  Den.  It  was  boltedr  but 
with  superhuman  sti'ength  he  shook  it  down,  staggering 
backward  as  the  dense  clouds  of  yellowish  smoke  rolled 
over  and  around  him,  warning  him  not  to  advance.  But 
Arthur  heeded  no  warning  then.  By  the  light  which 
illumined  the  entire  front  of  the  house,  he  saw  that  two 
sides  of  the  room  were  not  yet  touched  ;  the  bed  in  the 
recess  was  unharmed,  but  Richard  was  not  there,  and  a 
terrible  fear  crept  over  Arthur  lest  he  had  perished  in  hU 
attempt  to  escape.  Suddenly  he  remembered  Nina's  cell, 
and  groping  his  way  through  fire  and  smoke,  he  open- 
ed the  oaken  door,  involuntarily  breathing  a  prayer  of 
thanksgiving  when  he  saw  the  tall  form  stretched  upon 
the  empty  bedstead.  He  had  probably  mistaken  the  way 
out,  and  by  entering  here,  had  prolonged  his  life,  for  save 
through  the  g^.ass  ventilator  the  smoke  could  not  find  en- 
trance to  that  spot.  Arthur  knew  that  he  was  living,  for 


THB   FIERY   TEST.  349 

the  lips  moved  once  and  whispered,  "Edith,"  causing 
Arthur's  brain  to  reel,  and  the  cold  sweat  to  sturt  from 
every  pore  as  he  thought  for  what  and  for  whom  he  was 
saving  his  rival.  Surely  in  that  terrible  hour,  in  Nina's 
cell,  with  death  staring  him  in  the  face  on  every  side, 
Arthur  St.  Claire  atoned  for  all  the  past,  and  by  his  noble 
unselfishness  proved  how  true  and  brave  he  was. 

Snatching  from  the  nail  the  heavy  sack,  he  wound  it 
around  Richard's  head  to  shield  him  from  the  flames, 
then  recollecting  that  on  the  bed  without  there  was  a 
thick  rose  blanket,  he  wrapped  that  too  around  him,  and 
bending  himself  with  might  and  main,  bore  him  in  his 
arms  across  the  heated  floor  and  out  into  the  narrow  hall, 
growing  sick  and  faint  when  he  saw  the  Avail  of  fire  now 
rolling  steadily  up  the  stairway. 

"  Oh,  must  I  die ! "  he  groaned,  as  he  leaned  panting 
against  the  wall,  listening  to  the  roar  without,  which 
sounded  in  his  ear  like  demons  yelling  over  their  prey. 

Life  looked  very  fair  to  the  young  man  then  ;  even  life 
without  Edith  was  preferable  far  to  a  death  like  this.  He 
was  too  young  to  die,  and  the  heart  which  had  said  in  its 
bitterness,  "  there  is  nothing  worth  living  for,"  clung  te- 
naciously to  a  world  which  seemed  so  fast  receding  from 
view. 

By  leaving  Richard  there,  by  stripping  him  of  his  cov- 
ering, and  folding  it  about  himself,  he  could  assuredly 
leap  down  those  stairs,  and  though  he  reached  the  bottom 
a  scarred,  disfigured  thing,  life  would  be  in  him  yet ;  but 
Arthur  did  not  waver;  Richard  should  share  his  fate,  be 
it  for  weal  or  woe,  and  with  a  prayer  for  help,  he  turned 
aside  into  a  little  room  from  which  a  few  rude  steps  led 
np  into  the  the  cupola.  Heaven  surely  saved  this  'way 
for  him,  for  the  fire  was  not  there  yet,  and  he  passed  in 
safety  to  the  roof,  where  he  stood,  many  dizzy  feet  from 
the  shouting  multitude,  who,  hoping  he  might  take  advan- 
tage of  it,  were  watching  for  him  to  appear,  greeting  him 


350  DAEKITESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

with  many  a  loud  huzza,  and  bidding  him  take  courage 
The  engines  had  been  brought  to  bear  on  this  part  of  the 
building,  subduing  the  fire  to  such  an  extent  that  it  was 
barely  possible  for  him  to  reach  the  northern  extremity, 
where,  by  jumping  upon  a  flat,  lower  roof,  whose  surface 
was  tin,  and  then  walking  a  beam  over  a  sea  of  hissing 
flame,  he  could  reach  the  ladder  hoisted  against  the  wall. 
All  this  they  made  him  understand,  and  with  but  little 
hope  of  his  success  they  watched  him  breathlessly  as  he 
trod  the  black,  steaming  shingles,  which  crisped  the  soles 
of  his  boots,  and  penetrated  even  to  his  flesh.  He  has 
passed  that  point  in  safety,  he  leaps  upon  the  wing,  stag- 
gering, aye,  falling  with  his  burden,  and  when  he  strug- 
gles to  his  feet,  the  red  blaze,  wheeling  in  circles  around 
him,  shows  where  the  blood  is  flowing  from  a  wound  upon 
the  forehead.  The  batteries  of  the  engine  are  directed 
toward  him  now,  and  they  saturate  his  clothes  with  water, 
for  the  most  fearful,  most  dangerous  part  is  yet  to  come, 
the  treading  that  single  beam.  Will  he  do  it?  Can  he 
do  it?  TJntrammeled  he  might,  but  with  that  heavy 
form  he  hugs  so  carefully  to  him,  never !  So  the  crowd 
decide,  and  they  shout  to  him,  "  Leave  him ;  he  is  dead. 
Save  yourself,  young  man;"  but  the  brave  Arthur  an- 
swers, "No,"  and  half  wishes  he  were  blind,  so  as  to  shut 
out  the  seething  vortex  into  which  one  mistep  would 
plunge  him.  And  while  he  stood  there  thus,  amid  the 
roaring  of  the  flames,  and  the  din  of  the  multitude,  there 
floated  up  to  him  a  girlish  voice, 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  Arthur,  make*  believe  you  are  blind, 
and  maybe  you  can  walk  the  beam." 

It  was  Edith.  He  saw  her  where  she  stood,  apart  from 
all  the  rest,  her  long  black  hair  unbound  just  as  she  sprang 
from  her  pillow,  her  arms  outstretched  toward  him,  and 
the  sight  nerved  him  to  the  trial.  He  looked  at  her  once 
more,  it  might  be  for  the  last  time,  but  he  would  carry 
the  remembrance  of  that  dear  face  even  to  eternity,  and 


THE    2TEEY    TEST.  '        351 

with  a  longing,  wistful  glance  he  closed  his  eyes  and  pie« 
pared  to  do  her  bidding.  Then  it  seemed  to  him  that 
another  presence  than  Edith's  was  abound  him,  another 
voice  than  hers  svas  whispering  words  of  courage,  Kina, 
who  went  before,  guiding  his  footsteps,  and  lightening  hia 
load,  screening  him  from  the  scorching  heat  and  buoying 
him  up,  while  he  walked  the  blackened  beam,  which  shook 
and  bent  at  every  tread,  and  at  last  fell  with  a  crash,  but 
not  uutil  the  ladder  was  reached,  and  a  dozen  friendly 
arms  were  outstretched  for  Richard,  and  for  him,  too,  for 
sight  and  strength  had  failed  him  when  they  were  no  long- 
er needed..  With  countless  blessings  on  the  noble  young 
man,  they  laid  him  on  the  grass  at  Edith's  side,  wounded, 
burned,  smoke-stained,  and  totally  unconscious. 

It  was  well  for  Richard  that  the  entire  household  of 
Collingwood  were  there  to  care  for  him,  for  Edith's 
thoughts  were  all  bestowed  on  Aithur.  She  hardly  looked 
at  Richard,  but  kneeling  down  by  Arthur,  kissed,  and 
pitied,  and  wept  over  his  poor,  raw,  bleeding  hands,  wiped 
the  blood  from  the  wound  on  the  forehead,  thinking  even 
then  how  it  would  be  concealed  by  the  brown  hair  —  the 
hair  all  singed  and  matted,  showing  how  fiercely  he  had 
battled  for  his  life.  Many  gathered  around  her  as  she  sat 
there  with  his  head  pillowed  on  her  lap,  and  from  the  an- 
guish written  on  her  face  learned  what  it  was  about  which 
the  curious  villagers  had  so  long  been  pondering. 

"  He  must  go  home  with  me,"  Grace  Atherton  said, 
"  My  carriage  will  soon  be  h  jre." 

Tins  reminded  Edith  that  she  too  must  act,  l»nd  beckon- 
ing to  Victor,  she  bade  him  hasten  to  Collingwood  and 
see  that  his  master's  room  was  made  comfortable. 

This  was  the  first  token  she  had  given  that  she  know 
of  Richard's  presence  near  her.  She  had  heard  thorn  say 
that  he  still  lived ;  that  not  a  hair  of  his  head  was  singed 
or  a  thread  of  his  night  garments  harmed,  and  for  this  she 
was  glad,  but  nothing  could  have  tempted  her  to  leave 


852  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

Arthur,  and  she  sat  by  him  until  the  arrival  of  the  car 
riages  which  were  to  convey  the  still  unconscious  men  tc 
their  respective  homes. 

At  Collingwood,  however,  her  whole  attention  was  giv- 
en to  Richard,  who,  as  he  began  to  realize  what  was  pass« 
ing  around  him,  seemed  so  much  disturbed  at  having  her 
near  him  that  Victor  whispered  to  her,  "Hadn't  you 
better  go  out  ?  I  think  your  presence  excites  him." 

Edith  had  fancied  so  too,  and  wondering  much,  why  it 
should,  she  left  him  and  going  to  her  own  room,  sat  down 
by  the  window,-  gazing  sadly  across  the  fields,  to  where 
Grassy  Spring  lay  in  the  morning  sunshine  a  blackened, 
smouldering  ruin. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE    SACRIFICE. 

For  a  few  days  Edith  hoped  that  the  fire  might  defei 
her  marriage  a  little  longer  but  almost  the  first  thing 
which  Richard  addressed  directly  to  her  was,  "  Let  the 
preparations  go  on  as  usual ;  there  need  be  no  delay." 

So  the  dressmakers  were  recalled  and  bridai  ffnery 
tossed  about  until  the  whole  was  finished  and  the  last 
sewing  woman  departed,  taking  with  her,  as  her  predeces- 
sors had  done,  a  large  budget  of  items  touching  the  cool 
indifference  of  the  bride  elect  and  the  icy  reserve  of  the 
bridegroom,  who  was  greatly  changed,  they  said.  It  is 
true  he  was  kind  and  considerate,  as  of  old,  and  his  voice, 
whenever  he  spoke  to  Edith,  was  plaintively  sad  and 
touching,  but  he  preferred  to  be  much  alone,  spending  his 
time  in  his  chamber,  into  which  few  save  his  valet  waa 
admitted.  And  thus  no  one  suspected  the  mighty  conflict 
he  was  waging  with  himself,  one  moment  crying  out,  "  I 


THE  SACRIFICE.  853 

cannot  give  her  up,"  and  again  moaning  piteously,  u  1 
must,  I  must." 

The  first  meeting  between  himself  and  Arthur  after  the 
6re  had  been  a  most  affecting  one,  Richard  sobbing  like  a 
child,  kissing  the  hands  wounded  so  cruelly  for  him,  and 
whispering  amid  his  sobs,  "You  saved  my  life  at  the  peril 
oi  your  own,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it.  God  help  me 
tc  do  right." 

Many  times  after  this  he  rode  down  to  Brier  Hill  whith- 
er Edith  had  frequently  preceded  him ;  but  Richard  never 
uttered  a  word  of  reproach  when  near  the  window  he 
heard  a  rustling  sound  and  knew  who  was  sitting  there. 
Neither  would  he  ask  a  single  question  when  soft  foot- 
steps glided  past  him  and  out  into  the  hall,  but  he  always 
heard  them  until  they  died  away,  and  he  knew  those  little 
feet  were  treading  the  verge  of  the  grave  he  had  dug 
within  his  heart.  It  was  not  yet  filled  up  —  that  grave 
—  but  his  mighty  love  for  Edith  lay  coffined  there,  and  he 
only  waited  for  the  needful  strength  to  bury  it  forever  by 
verbally  giving  her  up. 

And  while  he  waited  the  May-days  glided  by,  and  where 
the  apple  blossoms  once  had  been,  the  green  hard  fruit 
was  swelling  now,  the  lilacs,  purple  and  limp,  had  drop- 
ped from  the  tree,  the  hyacinths  and  daffodils  were  gone, 
and  June  with  her  sunny  skies  and  wealth  of  roses, 
queened  it  over  Collingwood.  It  lacked  but  a  week  now  of 
the  day  appointed  for  the  wedding,  and  Edith  wished  the 
time  would  hasten,  for  anything  was  preferable  to  the 
numb,  apathetic  feeling  which  lay  around  her  heart.  She 
had  no  hope  that  she  should  not  be  Richard's  wife,  and 
she  wondered  much  at  his  manner,  trying  more  than  once 
to  coax  him  from  his  strange  mood  by  playful  words,  and 
even  by  caresses,  which  won  from  him  no  response  —  only 
once,  when,  he  hugged  her  tightly  to  him,  kissing  her  lips 
and  hair,  and  saying  to  her,  "  God  forgive  me,  Birdie,  I 
never  meant  to  wrong  you  and  I  am  going  to  make 
amends. " 


854  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

The  next  day  when  Victor  went  up  to  his  master's 
room  he  was  struck  with  the  peculiar  expression  of  his 
face  — •  a  subdued,  peaceful  expression  which  told  that  he 
was  ready  at  last  to  make  the  great  sacrifice  —  to  fold  the 
darkness  more  thickly  around  himself,  and  give  to  Arthur 
the  glorious  daylight  he  once  hoped  would  shine  for  him. 
and  Richard  would  make  this  sacrifice  in  his  own  way. 
Ediih  should  read  Nina's  letter  aloud  to  him,  with 
Arthur  sitting  near,  and  then,  when  it  was  finished,  he 
would  ask  if  it  were  true,  and  why  she  had  not  told  him 
before. 

Dinner  was  over,  and  in  the  library,  where  Richard  had 
asked  Edith  to  be  his  wife,  he  sat  waiting  for  her  now, 
and  for  Arthur  who  had  been  invited  to  Collingwood  that 
afternoon.  The  day  was  much  like  that  other  day  when 
Victor  alone  sat  with  him,  save  that  the  south  wind  steal- 
ing through  the  casement  was  warmer,  more  fragrant  than 
the  breath  of  May  had  been.  The  robin  was  not  now 
singing  in  the  maple  tree,  but  it  would  come  home  ere  long, 
and  Richard  knew  full  well  the  chirping  sounds  which 
would  welcome  its  approach.  Once  he  had  likened  him- 
self to  the  mated  robin,  but  now,  alas,  he  knew  he  was 
but  the  wounded  bird,  who  finds  its  nest  all  desolate,  its 
hopes  all  fled — "a  tough  old  owl,"  he  said,  smiling  bitterly 
as  he  remembered  when  first  he  used  that  term.  Edith 
was  right ;  she  could  not  mate  with  the  owl,  he  thought, 
just  as  Arthur  stepped  across  the  threshold,  and  Edith 
came  tripping  down  the  stairs. 

"  Sit  on  a  stool  at  my  feet,  as  you  used  to  do,"  Richard 
said  to  her;  "and  you,  Arthur,  sit  by  me  upon  this  sofa." 

They  obeyed  him,  and  after  a  moment  he  began,  "  I  have 
sent  for  you  my  children,  not  to  inflict  pain,  but  to  remove 
it.  Heaven  forbid  that  through  me  you  should  suffer  lon- 
ger, or  that  any  act  of  mine  should  embitter  your  young 
lives.  Do  not  interrupt  me,"  he  continued,  as  Edith  was 
about  to  speak.  "  I  must  hasten  on,  or  my  courage  alJ 


THE    SACRIFICE.  355 

will  fail  me.  Arthur,  give  me  your  h  wids,  the  nands  that 
saved  my  life.  1  will  touch  them  as  carefully,  as  tenderly 
as  I  am  about  to  deal  with  you." 

Arthur  complied  with  his  request,  and  pressing  the  right 
one,  Richard  continued, 

"  I  joined  this  once  with  another,  a  tiny,  little  hand,  now 
laid  away  beneath  the  Southern  flowers ;  and  you  said 
after  me,  *  I,  Arthur,  take  thee,  Nina,  for  my  wife.'  You 
remember  it,  don't  you?" 

Arthur  could  not  speak,  and,  save  the  violent  start  which 
Edith  gave,  there  came  no  answer  to  Richard's  question 
as  he  went  on : 

"  It  is  only  a  few  weeks  since  I  learned  who  was  that 
boy  husband  of  eighteen  and  that  girlish  bride  of  fifteen 
and  a  half,  but  I  know  it  now.  I  know  it  all,  and  this 
explains  much  that  has  been  strange  in  me  of  late.  Edith," 
and  he  felt  for  her  bowed  head,  "  Edith,  I  have  here  Nina'a 
letter,  written  by  stealth,  and  brought  by  Victor  to  me, 
and  you  must  read  it  to  us  —  then  tell  me,  if  you  can,  why 
I  have  so  long  been  deceived  ?  " 

Edith  had  glanced  at  the  beginning,  and  with  a  choking 
voice  she  said, 

"No,  no,  oh,  Richard,  no.  Don't  require  it  of  me. 
Anything  but  that.  I  never  knew  she  wrote  it.  I  never 
meant — oh,  Richard,  Richard!" 

She  laid  her  head  now  on  his  knee  and  sobbed  aloud, 
while  he  continued : 

"  You  must  read  it  to  me.  '  Tis  the  only  punishment 
I  shall  inflict  upon  you." 

"  Read  it,  Edith,"  Arthur  said,  withdrawing  one  of  his 
hands  from  Richard's,  and  resting  it  upon  her  head  thus 
to  re-assure  her. 

Richard  guessed  his  intention  and  laid  his  own  on 
Arthur's.  Edith  felt  the  gentle,  forgiving  pressure,  even 
through  the  wounded,  bandaged  hand,  and  this  it  was 
which  gave  her  strength  to  read  that  message,  which 


356  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

brought  Nina  before  them  all,  a  seemingly  living,  breathing 
presence.  And  when  it  was  finished  there  was  heard  in 
that  library  more  than  one  "  great  cry,  like  the  breaking 
up  of  the  ice  on  the  Northern  ponds." 

Richard  was  the  calmest  of  the  three.  The  contents  of 
the  letter  were  not  new  to  him,  and  did  not  touch  so 
tender  a  chord  as  that  which  thrilled  and  quivered  In 
Arthur's  heart  as  he  listened  to  the  words  of  his  sweet 
child-wife,  the  golden  haired  Nina.  Though  dead  she 
was  all  powerful  yet,  and  Nina,  from  her  grave,  swayed  a 
mightier  sceptre  than  Nina  living  could  have  done. 

"Edith,"  Richard  said,  when  her  agitation  had  in  a 
measure  subsided,  "  you  have  read  the  letter,  now  tell  me, 
is  it  true  ?  Crazy  people  do  not  always  see  or  hear  aright. 
Did  Nina  ?  Has  Arthur  loved  you  all  the  time  ?  " 

"Spare  Edith,"  Arthur  cried;  "and  question  me.  I 
did  love  Edith  Hastings,  even  when  I  had  no  right  so  to  do. 

"  And  would  you  ask  her  to  be  your  wife  if  there  were 
no  Richard  in  the  way,  and  she  was  free  as  when  you  first 
knew  and  loved  her?" 

Arthur  knew  the  blind  man  was  not  trifling  with  him, 
and  he  answered  promptly, 

"I  would,  but  she  will  bear  me  witness  that  never  since 
Nina  died,  have  I  sought,  by  word  or  deed,  to  influence  her 
decision." 

"  I  believe  you,"  Richard  said ;  "  and  now,  let  us  com- 
pare our  love  for  her,  one  with  the  other.  Let  us  see 
which  is  the  stronger  of  the  two.  Do  you  love  Edith  so 
much  that  you  would  give  her  to  another,  if  you  knew  she 
loved  that  other  best?  If  she  were  promised  to  you  by  a 
vow  she  dared  not  break,  would  you  give  her  to  me,  sup- 
posing I  was  preferred  before  you?" 

Arthur  was  very  white,  as  he,  answered, 

"  That  would  not  be  one-half  so  hard  as  the  yielding 
her  to  one  whom  she  did  not  love,  and,  Richard,  I  have 
done  this.  I  have  given  her  to  you,  even  when  I  knew 
that  a  word  from  me  would  have  kept  her  from  you." 


THE   SACPJFICE.  357 

"That  is  hardly  an  answer  to  my  question,"  Richard  re- 
joined, "  but  it  shows  how  honorable  you  have  been.  1 
qutstiou  whether  I  could  have  done  as  much.  Your  sense 
of  right  and  wrong  was  stronger  than  your  love." 

"But,"  said  Arthur,  quickly  interrupting  him,  "you 
must  not  think  that  I  loved  Edith  less,  because  I  did  not 
speak.  Silence  only  fed  the  flame,  and  she  cannot  be  so 
inexpressibly  dear  to  you  as  she  is  to  me.  Oh,  Richard, 
Richard,  you  do  not  know  how  much  I  love  her." 

"Don't I?"  and  Richard  smiled  mournfully;  then  turning 
to  Edith,  he  continued,  "  And  you,  my  darling,  I  would 
hear  from  you  now.  Is  it  Richard  or  Arthur  you  pre- 
fer?" 

"Oh,  Richard," Edith  cried,  "I  meant  to  keep  my  vow, 
and  never  let  you  know.  I  was  going  to  be  a  true,  a  faith- 
ful wife,  even  if  it  killed  me  —  I  certainly  was  —  but,  for- 
give me,  Richard,  I  did  love  Arthur  first,  Arthur  best, 
Arthur  most  of  all,"  and  again  the  "great  cry"  smote  on 
Richard's  ear,  touching  a  chord  like  that  which  is  touched 
in  a  mother's  bosom  when  she  hears  her  suffering  infant's 
wail. 

"  Edith,"  he  said,  "  if  I  insist  upon  it,  will  you  still  be  my 
wife?" 

"  Yes,  Richard,  and  it  will  not  be  so  dreadful  now  that 
you  know  I  do  love  Arthur  best,  for  I  do,  I  do,  I  can't  help 
it,  and  I  have  tried  so  hard.  He  is  young  like  me,  and 
then  I  loved  him  first,  I  loved  him  best." 

And  in  this  last  the  whole  was  embodied.  Edith  loved 
Aithur  best.  Richard  knew  she  did,  and  turning  to 
Arthur,  he  continued, 

"  And  what  will  you  do  if  I  insist?  "Will  memories  of 
the  love  you  bore  your  lost  Nina  sustain  and  comfort  you?  " 

Richard  spoke  half-tauntingly,  but  Arthur  conquered  the 
emotion  of  anger  he  felt  arising  within  him  at  this  allu- 
sion to  the  past,  and  answered  mildly, 

"  As  I  hope  for  Heaven,  I  did  love  my  poor  Nina  at  the 


358  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

last,  with  a  love  which,  had  it  been  sooner  born,  would 
have  made  me  a  happier  man ;  and  Nina  knew  it  too. 
I  told  her  so  before  she  died,  and  I  would  fain  have  kept 
her  with  me,  but  I  could  not,  and  now,  if  I  lose  Edith, 
too,  it  will  not  be  so  hard,  because  I  did  love  ISina,  and 
sweet  memories  of  her  will  keep  my  soul  from  fainting, 
when  I  am  far  away  from  her  little  grave,  far  away  from 
you,  and  far  away  from  Edith." 

Arthur  arose  to  leave  the  room,  but  Richard  held  him 
back,  saying  to  him, 

"  You  have  answered  well.  Now  listen  to  me.  Edith 
Hastings  cannot  be  dearer  to  you  than  she  is  to  me,  but 
think  you  I  will  compel  her  to  be  mine  ?  Should  I  be 
happy,  knowing  that  always  in  her  dreams  another  arm 
than  mine  encircled  her  dear  form,  that  other  lips  than 
mine  were  pressed  to  hers,  which  moaned  in  sleep  not 
Richard's,  but  Arthur's  name  ?  And  this  would  surely 
be.  The  wife  I  mockingly  called  mine  would  be  yours  in 
spirit,  whether  on  land  or  sea,  and  I  ask  for  no  such  bride. 
Were  I  sure  I  could  win  her  love,  even  though  it  might 
not  be  in  years,  not  all  the  powers  of  earth  should  wrest 
her  from  me.  But  I  cannot.  Such  is  her  temperament 
that  she  would  give  me  only  hatred,  and  I  do  not  deserve 
this  from  her." 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't,  I  wouldn't,"  Edith  sobbed,  and  Richard 
continued, 

"  Hush,  my  child,  I  know  how  it  would  be,  even  if  I  did 
forget  it  for  a  time.  You  must  not  be  the  blind  man's 
wife,  though  the  giving  you  up  is  like  tearing  me  asunder. 
And  now,  Edith,  let  me  hold  you  once  more  as  I  never 
shall  hold  you  again.  It  will  make  me  strong  to  do  "what 
I  must  do." 

Edith  could  not  move,  but  Arthur  lifted  her  up,  and 
placing  her  in  Richard's  lap,  laid  one  of  his  own  hands 
pityingly  on  the  head  of  the  blind  man,  whose  tears  drop- 
ped on  Edith's  neck,  as  he  breathed  over  her  his  farewell. 

"  Light  of  my  eyes,  joy  of  my  heart,  you  know  not 


THE   SACRIFICE.  3t'9 

what  it  costs  me  to  give  you  up,  but  God  in  Heaven 
knows.  He  will  remember  all  my  pain,  removing  it  in 
His  own  good  time,  and  I  shall  yet  be  happy.  It  is  true, 
a  black,  dreary  waste  stretches  on  into  the  future,  but  be« 
yoai  it,  even  in  this  world,  the  bright  daylight  is  shining, 
and.  Richard  will  reach  it  at  last, — will  learn  to  think  of 
you  without  a  pang,  to  love  you  .as  his  sister.  Arthur, 
I  give  to  you  my  darling.  I  release  her  from  her  vow, 
and  may  the  kind  Father  bless  you  both,  giving  you 
every  possible  good.  Let  no  sorrow  for  me  mingle  with 
your  joy.  I  shall  have  grief  and  heaviness  for  a  time, 
but  I  am  strong  to  bear  it.  Morning  will  break  at  last. 
Let  the  wedding  night  be  kept  the  same  as  is  appointed, 
there  need  be  no  change,  save  in  the  bridegroom,  and  of 
that  the  world  will  all  approve.  And,  Edith,  if  during 
the  coming  week  I  am  not  much  with  you,  if  I  stay 
altogether  in  my  room,  do  not  tiy  to  see  me.  I  once 
thought  you  would  be  my  wife.  I  know  you  cannot  now, 
and  you  must  not  come  to  me  at  present.  But  on  your 
bridal  night,  I  shall  go  with  you  to  the  church.  It  would 
look  strangely  if  I  did  not.  I  shall  return  with  you  to 
the  house,  shall  force  myself  to  hear  them  call  you  by 
another  name  than  mine,  and  then,  the  next  morning 
Arthur  must  take  you  away  —  for  a  time,  I  mean.  I  know 
you  will  wish  to  thank  me,  but  I'd  rather  you  would  not. 
God  will  reward  me  in  some  way  for  the  sacrifice  I  make 
this  day.  Now,  Edith,  kiss  me  once,  kiss  me  twice,  with 
your  arms  around  my  neck.  Lay  your  soft  cheek  against 
mine.  Yes  —  so  —  so  — "  and  over  the  dark  face  there 
broke  a  shadowy  smile,  as  Edith  did  his  bidding,  kissing 
him  many,  many  times,  and  blessing  him  for  the  great 
tupj  iness  bestowed  upon  her. 

u  There,  that  will  do. "  Now,  Arthur,  lead  me  to  mj 
room,  and  sit  with  me  until  this  horrid  giddiness  is  gone, 
and  my  heart  beats  more  naturally." 

He  put  Edith  from  his  lap  —  passed  his  hand  slowlj 


360  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

over  her  face,  as  if  thus  he  would  remember  it,  and 
leaning  heavily  on  Arthur's  arm,  tottered  from  the  room 
—  the  noble  Richard  who  had  made  this  mighty  sacrifice, 


CHAPTER  XXXVII.      , 

THE   BRIDAL. 

The  week  went  by  as  all  weeks  will,  whether  laden  with 
happiness  or  pain,  and  the  rosy  light  of  the  15th  morning 
broke  over  the  New  England  hills  and  over  Collingwood, 
where  the  servants,  headed  by  Grace  Atherton,  were  all 
astir,  and  busy  with  their  preparations  for  the  festive  scene 
of  the  coming  night.  Edith  had  made  strenuous  efforts 
to  have  the  party  given  up,  sending  message  after  mes- 
sage to  Richard,  who,  without  any  good  reason  for  it,  was 
determined  upon  this  one  point,  ana  always  answered 
«No." 

He  had  adhered  to  his  resolution  of  staying  in  his  room, 
and  Edith  had  not  seen  him  since  the  eventful  day  when 
he  had  made  the  great  sacrifice.  Arthur,  however,  was 
admitted  daily  to  his  presence,  always  coming  from  those 
interviews  with  a  sad  look  upon  his  face,  as  if  his  happi- 
ness were  not  unmixed  with  pain.  And  still  Richard 
tried  to  be  cheerful,  talking  but  little  of  Edith,  and  ap- 
pearing so  calm  when  he  did  mention  her,  that  a  casual 
observer  would  have  said  he  did  not  care. 

In  the  village  nothing  was  talked  about  save  the  change 
ef  bridegrooms  and  the  approaching  wedding,  and  when 
the  morning  came,  others  than  the  inmates  of  Collingwood 
were  busy  and  excited. 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  for  leafy  June  had  donned  her 
gala  robes  for  the  occasion,  and  every  heart,  save  one,  beat 
with  joy,  as  the  sun  rose  higher  and  higher  in  the  heavens, 


THE   BRIDAL.  361 

bringing  nearer  and  nearer  the  appointed  hour.  Richard 
could  not  be  glad,  and  that  bridal  day  was  the  saddest  he 
had  ever  known.  Xot  even  Arthur  was  permitted  to  be 
with  him,  and  none  save  Victor  saw  the  white,  still  anguish 
cj  eeping  over  his  face  as  hour  after  hour"  went  by,  and 
from  the  sounds  without  he  knew  that  they  had  come 
irhose  business  it  was  to  array  his  Edith  in  her  bridal 
robes  of  costly  satin  and  fleecy  lace.  Then  two  more 
hours  dragged  heavily  on,  and  going  to  his  window  he 
felt  that  the  sun  was  setting.  It  was  time  his  own  toilet 
was  commenced,  and  like  a  little  child  he  submitted  him- 
self to  Victor,  groaning  occasionally  as  he  heard  the  mer- 
ry laugh  of  the  bridesmaids  on  the  stairs,  and  remembered 
a  time  when  he,  too,  felt  as  light,  as  joyous  as  they,  aye, 
and  almost  as  young.  He  was  strangely  altered  now, 
and  looked  far  older  than  his  years,  when,  with  his  wed- 
ding garments  on,  he  sat  in  his  arm-chair  waiting  for  the 
bride.  He  had  sent  Victor  for  her,  knowing  it  would  be 
better  to  meet  her  once  before  the  trying  moment  at  the 
altar.  Edith  obeyed  the  summons,  and  in  all  her  wondrous 
beauty,  which  this  night  shone  forth  resplendently,  she 
came  and  stood  before  him,  saying  softly, 

"  Richard,  I  am  here." 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  him  that.  He  knew  she  was 
there,  and  drawing  her  to  his  side,  he  said, 

"  I  am  glad  that  I  am  blind  for  once,  for  should  I  behold 
you  as  you  are,  I  could  not  give  you  up.  Kneel  down  here, 
darling,  and  let  me  feel  how  beautiful  you  are." 

She  knelt  before  him,  and  her  tears  fell  fast  as  she  felt 
his  hand  moving  slowly  over  her  dress,  pressing  lightly 
hei  round  arms,  pausing  for  a  moment  upon  her  white 
ncc.k,  tarrying  still  longer  upon  her  glowing  chocks,  and 
finally  resting  in  mute  blessing  upon  her  braids  of  hair, 
where  the  orange  blossoms  were. 

"  I  must  have  a  lock  of  my  Birdie's  hair,"  he  said.  "  Let 
Arthur  cut  it  off  to-night.  It  will  be  dearer  to  me  than 
16 


862  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

if  'tis  later  severed.  Leave  it  on  the  table,  where  Vic- 
tor can  find  it,  for,  Edith,  when  you  return  from  your  bri- 
dal tour,  I  shall  be  gone,  and  I  have  sent  for  you  because 
I  would  talk  with  you  again  ere  we  part  —  it  may  be  for 
years,  and  it  may  be  forever." 

"  No,  Richard,  no,"  Edith  sobbed.  "  You  must  not  go 
ftway.  I  want  you  here  with  us." 

"  It  is  best  that  I  go  for  a  while,"  he  replied.  "  I  am 
almost  as  much  at  home  in  Europe  as  I  am  here,  and  Vic- 
tor is  anxious  to  see  Paris  again.  I  have  talked  with 
Arthur  about  it,  asking  him  to  live  here  while  I  am  gone 
at  least  and  take  charge  of  my  affairs.  He  had  thought 
to  rebuild  Grassy  Spring,  but  finally  consented  to  defer  it 
for  a  time  and  do  as  I  desired.  The  negroes  will  be 
pleased  with  this  arrangement,  and  as  Grace  must  wish  to 
be  rid  of  them,  they  will  come  up  here  at  once.  I  shall  be 
happier  knowing  that  you  are  here ;  and  when  I  feel  that 
I  can,  I  will  come  back  again,  but  do  not  let  thoughts  of 
the  wanderer  mar  your  bliss.  I  have  been  thinking  it 
over,  Edith,  and  I  see  more  and  more  that  it  was  right 
for  me  to  release  you.  I  do  not  censure  you  for  aught 
except  that  you  did  not  tell  me  in  the  beginning.  For 
this  I  did  blame  you  somewhat,  but  have  forgiven  you 
now." 

"Oh,  Richard,  Richard,"  Edith  burst  out  impetuously, 
"I  never  loved  you  one  half  so  much  as  since  you  gave 
me  to  Arthur,  and  I  have  wanted  to  come  and  tell  you 
so,  but  you  would  not  let  me." 

He  knew  what  kind  of  love  she  meant,  and  las  heart 
beat  just  the  same  as  she  continued, 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  that  I  was  ever 
cross  to  you,  and  I  have  been  many  times  since  that  night 
I  promised  to  be  yours.  I  don't  know  what  made  me 
I  do  not  feel  so  now." 

"I  know  what  made  you,"  Richard  replied.  "You 
did  not  love  the  blind  old  man  well  enough  to  be  his  wife, 


THE   BRIDAL.  363 

and  the  feeling  that  you  must  be,  soured  your  disposition. 
Forgive  me,  darling,  but  I  don't  believe  I  should  have 
been  happy  with  you  after  a  time  —  not  as  happy  as  Ar- 
thur,  and  it  is  this  which  helps  me  bear  it." 

This  was  not  very  complimentary  to  Edith,  but  it  com- 
forted her  just  as  Richard  meant  it  should,  and  made  the 
future  look  brighter.  Richard  was  dearer  to  her  now  than 
he  had  ever  been,  and  the  tender,  loving  caress  she  gave 
him,  when  at  last  Arthur's  voice  was  heard  without 
asking  for  admission  was  not  feigned,  for  she  felt  that  he 
was  the  noblest,  the  best  of  men,  and  she  told  him  so,  kiss- 
ing again  and  again  his  face,  and  sighing  to  think  how 
white  and  wan  it  had  grown  within  the  last  few  weeks. 

"  Come,  darling,  we  are  waiting  for  you,"  Arthur  said, 
as  he  advanced  into  the  room,  and  Richard  put  from  his 
lap  the  beautiful  young  girl  around  whose  uncovered 
shoulders  Arthur  wrapped  the  white  merino  cloak  which 
was  to  shield  her  from  the  night  air ;  then  bending  over 
Richard,  he  said,  "  Heaven  will  bless  you,  even  as  I  do,  for 
the  peerless  gift  I  have  received  from  you,  and  believe  me, 
there  is  much  of  pain  mingled  with  my  joy  —  pain  at  leav- 
ing you  so  desolate.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  I  feel,  but  if  a 
lifetime  of  devotion  can  in  the  smallest  degree  repay  you 
what  I  owe,  it  shall  be  freely  given.  Now  bless  me  once 
more,  me  and  my  —  bride." 

Richard  had  arisen  as  Arthur  was  speaking,  and  at  the 
word  bride  he  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  keep  from  falling, 
then  steadying  that  on  Arthur's  head  and  laying  the  other 
on  Edith's  he  whispered, 

a  To  him  who  saved  my  life  when  he  believed  I  was 
his  rival  I  give  my  singing  bird,  who  for  eleven  years  has 
been  the  blind  man's  sunshine — give  her  freely,  cheerfully, 
harboring  no  malice  against  him  who  takes  her,  My 
Arthur  and  my  precious  Edith,  I  bless  and  love  you  both.* 

The  nerveless  hands  pressed  heavily  for  a  moment  upon 
the  two  bowed  heads,  and  then  Arthur  led  his  bride  away 
to  where  the  carriage  waited. 


864  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

The  ceremony  was  appointed  for  half-past  eight,  but  long 
before  that  hour  St.  Luke's  was  filled  to  overflowing,  some 
coming  even  as  early  as  six  to  secure  seats  most  favorable 
to  sight.  And  there  they  waited,  until  the  roll  of  wheel? 
was  heard  and  the  clergyman  appeared  in  the  chancel 
Then  seven  hundred  tired  heads  turned  simultaneously 
Joward  the  door  through  which  the  party  came,  the  rich 
robes  of  the  bride  trailing  upon  the  carpet  and  sweep 
ing  from  side  to  side  as  she  moved  up  the  middle  aisle. 
But  not  upon  her  did  a  single  eye  in  all  that  vast  assem- 
blage linger,  nor  yet  upon  the  bridegroom,  nor  yet  upon 
the  bridesmaid,  filing  in  one  behind  the  other,  but  upon 
the  stooping  figure  which  movpd  so  slowly,  blind  Richard 
groping  his  way  to  the  altar,  caring  nothing  for  the  staring 
crowd,  nothing 'for  the  sudden  buzz  as  he  came  in,  hearing 
nothing  but  Victor's  whispered  words,  "'twill  soon  be  over." 

Yes,  it  would  soon  be  over.  It  was  commencing  now, 
the  marriage  ceremony,  and  Richard  listened  in  a  kind  of 
maze,  until  the  clergyman  asked, 

"Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man?" 

As  Arthur  had  supposed  this  part  would,  of  course,  be 
omitted,  no  arrangements  had  been  made  for  it,  and  an 
awkward  pause  ensued,  while  all  eyes  involuntarily  turned 
apon  the  dark  man  now  standing  up  se  tall,  so  erect,  among 
that  group  of  lighter,  airier  forms.  Like  some  frozen  sta- 
tue Richard  stood,  and  the  minister,  thinking  he  did  not 
hear,  repeated  his  demand.  Slowly  Richard  moved  forward, 
and  Grace,  who  was  next  to  Edith,  stepped  aside  as  he 
came  near.  Reverently  he  laid  his  hand  on  Edith's  head, 
and  said  aloud, 

«  I  DO  ! " 

Then  the  hand,  sliding  from  her  head  rested  on  her 
shoulder,  where  it  lay  all  through  that  ceremony,  and  the 
weeping  spectators  sitting  near,  heard  distinctly  the  words 
whispered  by  the  white  lips  which  dripped  with  tLe  per- 
epiration  of  this  last  dreadful  agony. 


THE    BRIDAL.  365 

**  I,  Richard,  take  thee,  Birdie,  to  be  my  wedded  wife,  to 
have  and  to -hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better  foi 
worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to 
love  and  to  cherish,  till  death  us  do  part,  according  to 
God's  holy  ordinance ;  and  thereto  I  plight  thee  my  troth." 

He  said  it  every  word,  and  when  it  was  Edith's  turn,  ha 
bent  a  little  forward,  while  his  hand  grasped  her  bare 
shoulder  so  firmly  as  to  leave  a  mark  when  she  put  Ar« 
thur's  name  where  his  should  have  been,  and  the  quivering 
lips  moaned  faintly, 

"  Don't  Birdie,  don't. " 

It  was  a  strange  bridal,  more  sad  than  joyous,  for  though 
in  the  hearts  of  bride  and  groom  there  was  perfect  love 
for  each  other,  there  were  too  many  bitter  memories  crowd- 
ing upon  them  both  to  make  it  a  moment  of  unmixed 
bliss — memories  of  Nina,  who  seemed  to  stand  by  Arthur, 
blessing  him  in  tones  unheard,  and  a  sadder,  a  living  mem- 
ory of  the  poor  blind  man  whose  low  wail,  when  all  was 
done,  smote  painfully  on  Edith's  ear. 

In  a  pew  near  to  the  altar  Victor  sat  weeping  like  a 
child,  and  when  the  last  Amen  was  uttered,  he  sprang  to 
his  master's  side  and  said, 

w  Come  with  me.  You  cannot  wish  to  go  home  with 
the  bride." 

Instantly  the  crowd  divided  right  and  left  as  Victor 
passed  through  their  midst,  leading  out  into  the  open  air 
the  faint,  sick  man,  who,  when  they  were  alone,  leaned 
his  head  meekly  on  his  faithful  valet's  arm,  saying  to  him, 

"  You  are  all  there  is  left  to  care  for  me  now.  Be  good 
to  me,  won't  you?  " 

Victor  answered  with  a  clasp  of  his  hand  and  hurried 
on,  reaching  Collingwood  before  the  bridal  guests,  who 
ere  long  came  swarming  in  like  so  many  buzzing  bees,  con- 
gratulating the  ne^ly-wedded  pair,  and  looking  curiously 
round  for  Richard.  But  Richard  was  not  there.  He  had 
borne  all  he  could,  and  on  his  bed  in  his  bolted  room  he 


866  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

lay,  scarcely  giving  a  token  of  life  save  when  the  sounds 
from  the  parlors  reached  his  ear,  when  he  would  whisper, 

'•  Tis  done.     It  is  done." 

One  by  one  the  hours  went  by,  and  then  up  the  grav- 
elled walk  the  carriages  rolled  a  second  time  to  take  the 
guests  away.  Hands  were  shaken  and  good  nights  said. 
There  was  cloaking  in  the  ladies'  room  and  impatient  wait- 
ing in  the  gentlemen's ;  there  was  hurrying  down  the  stairs, 
through  the  hall,  and  out  upon  the  piazza.  There  was 
banging  to  of  carriage  doors,  cracking  of  drivers'  whips, 
and  racing  down  the  road.  There  was  a  hasty  gathering 
up  of  silver,  a  closing  of  the  shutters,  a  putting  out  of 
lamps,  until  at  last  silence  reigned  over  Collingwood,  from 
whose  windows  only  two  lights  were  gleaming.  Arthur 
was  alone  with  his  bride,  and  Richard  alone  with  hia 
God. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

SIX   TEAKS   LATER. 

The  New  York  and  Springfield  train  eastward  bound 
stood  waiting  in  the  depot  at  New  Haven.  There  had 
been  a  slight  accident  which  occasioned  a  detention  of 
several  minutes,  and  taking  advantage  of  this  delay  many 
of  the  passengers  alighted  to  stretch  their  weary  limbs  or 
in  hale  a  breath  of  purer  air  than  could  be  obtained  with- 
in the  crowded  car.  Several  seats  were  thus  left  unoccu- 
pied, one  of  which  a  tall,  dark,  foreign-looking  man,  with 
eyes  concealed  by  a  green  shade,  was  about  appropriating 
to  himself,  when  a  wee  little  hand  was  laid  on  his  and  a 
Bweet  baby  voice  called  out, 

"  That's  my  mamma's  chair,  big  man,  mamma  gone  nfief 
cake  for  Nina!" 


SIX   TEARS   LATEB.  86? 

The  stranger  started,  and  his  face  flushed  with  some 
trong  emotion,  while  his  hand  rested  caressingly  upon 
ihe  flowing  cm  Is  of  the  beautiful  three-years-old  girl,  aa 
he  asked, 

"Who  is  mamma,  darling?  What  is  her  name.  I 
mean?" 

"  I  can  tell  that  a  heap  better'n  Nina,"  chimed  in  a  boy 
of  five,  who  was  sitting  just  across  the  aisle,  and  joining 
the  little  girl,  he  continued, "  My  mother  is  Edith,  so  Aunt 
Grace  calls  her,  but  father  says  Miggie  most  all  the  time. 

The  stranger  sank  into  the  seat,  dizzy  and  faint  with 
the  mighty  shock,  for  he  knew  now  that  Edith's  children 
were  standing  there  before  him  —  that  frank,  fearless  boy, 
and  that  sweet  little  girl,  who,  not  caring  to  be  outdone 
by  her  brother,  said,  in  a  half  exultant  way,  as  if  it  were 
something  of  which  she  were  very  proud, 

"  I've  got  an  Uncle  'Ichard,  I  have,  and  he's  tomin' 
home  birne  by." 

"And  going  to  bring  me  lots  of  things,"  interrupted  the 
boy  again,  "  Marie  said  so." 

At  this  point  a  tall,  slender  Frenchman,  who  had  enter- 
ed behind  the  man  with  the  green  shade,  glided  from  the 
car,  glancing  backward  just  in  time  to  see  that  his  master 
had  coaxed  both  children  into  his  lap,  the  girl  coming 
shyly,  while  the  boy  sprang  forward  with  that  wide-awake 
fearlessness  which  characterized  all  his  movements.  He 
was  a  noble-looking  little  fellow,  and  the  stranger  hugged 
him  fondly  as  he  kissed  the  full  red  lips  so  like  to  other 
lips  kissed  long  years  ago. 

"What  makes  you  wear  this  funny  thing  ?  "  asked  the 
child,  peering  up  under  the  shade. 

"  Because  my  eyes  are  weak,"  was  the  reply.  "  People 
around  your  home  call  me  blind." 

"Uncle  'Ichard  is  blind,"  lisped  the  little  girl,  while  the 
boy  rejoined,  "  but  the  bestest  man  that  ever  lived.  Why, 
he's  betterer  than  father,  I  guess,  for  I  asked  ma  wan't  he, 
and  pa  told  me  yes. 7 


868  DAKKJTESS    AKT>    DAYLIGHT. 

"  Hush-sh,  child,"  returned  the  stranger, fearing  lest  they 
might  attract  too  much  attention. 

"Then  removing  the  shade,  his  eyes  rested  long  ind 
wistfully  upon  the  little  boy  and  girl  as  he  said, 

"I  am  your  Uncle  Richard." 

"  True  as  you  live  and  breathe  are  you  Uncle  Dick,"  !  h  e 
boy  almost  screamed,  winding  his  chubby  arms  around  the 
stranger's  neck,  while  Nina  standing  upon  her  ieet  chijped 
out  her  joy  as  she  patted  the  bearded  cheek,  and  called  him 
«  Uncle  '  Ick." 

Surely  if  there  had  been  any  lingering  pain  in  the  heart 
of  Richard  Harrington  it  was  soothed  away  by  the  four 
soft  baby  hands  which  "passed  so  caressingly  over  his  fnce 
and  hair,  while  honeyed  lips  touched  his,  and  sweet  bird- 
like  voices  told  how  much  they  had  been  taught  to  love 
one  whom  they  always  called  Uncle.  These  children  had 
been  the  hardest  part  of  all  to  forgive,  particularly  the 
first  born,  for  Richard,  when  he  heard  of  him  had  felt  all 
the  old  sorrow  coming  back  again ;  a  feeling  as  if  Edith 
had  no  right  with  little  ones  which  did  not  call  him  father. 
But  time  had  healed  that  wound  too,  until  from  the 
sunny  slopes  of  France,  where  his  home  had  so  long  been, 
his  heart  had  often  leaped  across  the  sea  in  quest  of  these 
game  children  now  prattling  in  his  ear  and  calling  him 
Uncle  Dick.  There  was  another,  a  dearer  name  by  which 
they  might  have  called  him,  but  he  knew  now  that  'twas 
not  for  him  to  be  thus  addressed.  And  still  he  felt  some- 
thing like  a  father's  love  stealing  into  his  heart  as  he 
wound  his  arms  around  the  little  forms,  giving  back  kiss 
for  kiss,  and  asking  which  was  like  their  mother. 

"  Ain't  none  of  us  much,"  Dick  replied.  "  We're  like 
father  and  Aunt  Nina,  hanging  on  the  wall  in  the  library. 
Mother's  got  big  black  eyes,  with  winkers  a  rod  long,  and 
her  hair  shines  like  my  velvet  coat,  and  comes  most  to  her 
feet." 

Richard  smiled,  and  was  about  to  speak  again,  when 


SIX  TEARS   LATER.  3Q9 

Dick  forestalled  him  by  asking  —  not  if  he  had  brought 
him  something,  but  where  it  was. 

"It's  in  your  trunk,  I  guess,"  he  said,  as  his  busy  fingers 
investigated  every  pocket  and  found  nothing  savoring  of 
playthings,  except  a  knife,  both  blades  of  which  were 
oj-ened  in  a  trice,  and  tried  upon  the  window  fill ! 

Richard,  who,  never  having  known  much  of  children, 
had  not  thought  of  presents,  was  sorely  perplexed,  when 
lurkily  Victor  returned,  bringing  a  paper  of  molasses 
candy,  which  he  slyly  thrust  into  his  master's  hand, 
whispering  to  him, 

"  They  always  like  that." 

Victor  had  calculated  aright,  for  nothing  could  have 
pleased  the  St.  Claires  more ;  and  when,  as  she  entered 
at  the  door,  Edith  caught  sight  of  her  offspring,  she  hardly 
knew  them,  so  besmeared  were  their  little  faces  with  mo- 
lasses, Nina  having  wiped  her  hands  first  upon  her  hair 
and  then  rubbed  them  upon  Richard's  knee,  while  Victor 
looked  on  a  little  doubtful  as  to  what  the  mother  might 
say. 

"  There's  mam-ma,"  Nina  cried,  trying  to  shake  back 
her  curls,  which  nevertheless  stuck  tightly  to  her  fore- 
head. "  There's  mam-ma,"  and  in  an  instant  little  Dick, 
as  he  was  called,  found  himself  rather  unceremoniously  set 
down  upon  his  feet,  as  Richard  adjusted  his  shade,  and 
resumed  the  air  of  helplessness  so  natural  to  the  blind. 

Edith  had  been  to  New  York  Avith  Marie  and  the  chil- 
dren, leaving  the  former  there  for  a  few  weeks,  and  was 
now  on  her  way  home,  whither  she  hoped  ere  long  to 

welcome  Richard,  whom  she   had  never  seen  since  the 

t 

night  of  her  marriage,  when  Victor  led  him  half  fainting 
from  the  altar.'  He  would  not  join  them  at  the  breakfast 
next  morning,  but  sent  them  his  good-bye,  and  when  they 
returned  from  their  long,  happy  brklal  tour  they  found  a 
letter  for  them  saying  Richard  was  in  Paris. 

Regularly  after  that  they  heard  from  him,  and  though 
16* 


<*70  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

he  never  referred  to  the  past,  Edith  knew  how  much  it  cost 
him  to  write  to  one  whom  he  had  loved  so  much.  Latterly, 
however,  his  letters  had  been  far  more  cheerful  in  their 
tone,  and  it  struck  Edith  that  his  hand-writing  too,  was 
more  even  than  formerly,  but  she  suspected  nolhing  and 
rather  anticipated  the  time  when  she  should  be  eyes  foi 
him  again,  just  as  she  used  to  be.  He  had  said  in  his  last 
lettei  that  he  was  coming  home  ere  long,  but  she  had  acj 
idea  that  he  was  so  near,  and  she  wondered  what  tall,  grey- 
ish haired  gentleman  it  was  who  had  taken  possession  of 
her  seat. 

"  Mother,"  little  Dick  was  about  to  scream,  when  Victoi 
placed  his  hand  upon  his  mouth,  at  the  same  time  turning 
his  back  to  Edith,  who,  a  little  surprised  at  the  proceeding, 
and  a  little  indignant  it  may  be,  said  rather  haughtily, 
and  with  a  hasty  glance  at  Richard, 

"  My  seat,  sir,  if  you  please." 

The  boy  by  this  time  had  broken  away  from  Victor,  and 
yelled  out,  "  Uncle  Dick,  ma,  Uncle  Dick ; "  but  it  did  not 
need  this  now  to  tell  Edith  who  it  was.  A  second  glance 
had  told  her,  and  with  face  almost  as  white  as  the  linen 
collar  about  her  neck,  she  reeled  forward,  and  would  have 
fallen  but  for  Victor,  who  caught  her  by  the  shoulder  and 
set  her  down  beside  his  master. 

Richard  was  far  less  excited  than  herself,  inasmuch  as 
he  was  prepared  for  the  meeting,  and  as  she  sank  down 
with  the  folds  of  her  grey  traveling  dress  lying  in  his  lap, 
he  offered  her  his  hand,  and  with  the  same  old  sunny 
smile  she  remembered  so  well,  said  to  her, 

"  Do  you  not  know  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  gasped,  "  but  it  takes  my  breath  away.  1 
was  not  expecting  you  so  soon.  I  am  so  glad." 

He  knew  she  was  by  the  way  her  snowy  fingers  twined 
themselves  around  his  own  and  by  the  fervent  pressure  of 
her  lips  upon  his  hand. 

"  Mam-ma's  tyin',"  said  Nina,  and  then   Edith's   team 


SIX   TEAKS   LATER.  371 

fell  fast,  dropping  upon  the  broad  hand  she  still  held,  and 
which  very,  very  gradually,  but  still  intentionally  drew 
hers  directly  beneath  the  green  shade,  and  there  Richard 
kept  it,  his  thumb  hiding  the  broad  band  of  gold  which 
told  she  was  a  wife. 

It  was  a  very  small,  white,  pretty  hand,  and  so  perhaps 
he  imagined,  for  he  held  it  a  long,  long  time,  while  he  talked 
quite  naturally  of  Arthur,  of  Grace,  of  the  people  of  Shan- 
uondale,  and  lastly  of  her  children. 

"  They  crept  into  my  heart  before  I  knew  it,"  he  said, 
releasing  Edith's  hand  and  lifting  Nina  to  his  knee.  "They 
are  neither  of  them  much  like  you,  my  namesake  says." 

This  reminded  Edith  of  the  mysterious  shade  which 
puzzled  luer  so  much,  and,  without  replying  directly  to  him, 
she  asked  why  it  was  worn.  Victor  shot  a  quick,  nervous 
glance  at  his  master,  who  without  the  slightest  tremor  in 
his  voice,  told  her  that  he  had  of  late  been  troubled  with 
weak  eyes,  and  as  the  dust  and  sunlight  made  them  worse,  he 
had  been  advised  to  wear  it  while  traveling  as  a  protection- 

"  I  shall  remove  it  by  and  by,  when  I  am  rested,"  he 
said. 

And  Edith  hoped  he  would,  for  he  did  not  seem  natural 
to  her  with  that  ugly  thing  disfiguring  him  as  it  did. 

When  Hartford  was  reached  Richard  found  an  opportvu 
nity  of  whispering  something  to  Victor,  who  replied, 

"  Tired  and  dusty.  Better  wait,  if  you  want  a  good 
impression." 

So,  with  a  spirit  of  self-denial  of  which  we  can  scarcely 
conceive  Richard  did  wait,  and  the  fjhade  was  drawn  close- 
ly down  as  little  Nina,  grown  more  bold  climbed  up  beside 
him,  and  poised  upon  one  foot,  her  fat  arm  resting  on  hia 
neck,  played  "  peek-a-boo  "  beneath  the  shade,  screaming 
at  every  "  peek,"  "  I  seen  your  eyes,  I  did." 

A  misstep  backward,  a  tumble  and  a  bumped  head 
brought  this  sport  to  an  end,  just  as  Shannondale  was 
reached,  and  in  her  attempts  to  soothe  the  little  girl,  Edith 


872  DAEraTESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

failed  to  see  that  the  shade  was  lifted  for  a  single  moment, 
while,  standing  upon  the  platform,  Richard's  eyes  wan- 
dered eagerly,  greedily  over  the  broad  meadow  lands  and 
fields  of  waving  grain,  over  the  wooded  hills,  rich  in  sum- 
mer glory,  and  lastly  toward  Collingwood.  with  its  rof.fi 
and  sle  uder  tower  basking  in  the  July  sun. 

"  Thank  God  thank  God,"  he  whispered,  just  as  Viet  >i 
caught  his  arm,  bidding  him  alight  as  the  train  was  aboat 
to  move  forward. 

"  There's  papa,  there  —  right  across  the  track,"  and  Dick 
tugged  at  his  father's  coat  skirts,  trying  to  make  him  com- 
prehend, but  Arthur  had  just  then  neither  eyes  nor  ears 
for  anything  but  his  sobbing  little  daughter,  whose  fore- 
head he  kissed  tenderly,  thereby  curing  the  pain  and  heal- 
ing the  wounded  heart  of  his  favorite  child,  his  second 
golden-haired  Nina. 

Dick,  however,  persevered,  until  his  father  understood 
what  he  meant,  and  Nina  was  in  danger  of  being  hurt 
again,  so  hastily  was  she  dropped  when  Arthur  learned 
that  Richard  had  come.  There  was  already  a  crowd 
around  him,  but  they  made  way  for  Arthur,  who  was*  not 
ashamed  to  show  before  them  all,  how  much  he  loved 
the  noble  mnn,  or  how  glad  he  was  to  have  him  back. 

"  Richard  has  grown  old,"  the  spectators  said  to  eacn 
other,  as  they  watched  him  till  he  entered  the  carriage 

And  so  he  had.  His  hair  was  quite  grey  now,  and  the 
tall  figure  was  somewhat  inclined  to  stoop,  while  about 
the  mouth  were  deep-cut  lines  which  even  the  heavy  mus- 
tache could  not  quite  conceal.  But  he  would  grow  young 
agnn,  and  even  so  soon  he  felt  his  earlier  manhood  coming 
back  as  he  rode  along  that  pleasant  afternoon,  past  tho 
fields  where  the  newly-mown  hay,  fresh  from  a  recent 
shower,  sent  forth  its  fragrance  upon  the  summer  air, 
while  the  song  of  the  mowers  mingled  with  the  click  of 
the  whetting  scythe,  made  sweet,  homelike  sounds  which 
he  loved  to  hear.  Why  did  he  lean  go  constantly  from  tho 


SIX   YEARS   LATER.  373 

carnage,  ami  why  when  Victor  exclaimed,  "The  old  ruin 
is  there  yet,"  referring  to  Grassy  Spring,  did  he,  too,  look 
across  the  valley? 

Arthur  asked  himself  this  question  many  times,  and  at 
last,  when  they  reached  Collingwood  and  Edith  had  alight- 
ed, he  bent  forward  and  whispered  in  Richard's  ear,  not  an 
.nter -ogation,  but  a  positive  affirmation,  which-  brought 
back  the  response, 

"  Don't  tell  her  —  not  yet,  I  mean." 

Arthur  turned  very  white  and  could  scarcely  stand  as 
he  stepped  to  the  ground,  for  that  answer,  had  taken  his 
strength  away,  and  Victor  led  him  instead  of  his  master 
into  the  house,  where  the  latter  was  greeted  joyfully  by 
the  astonished  servants. 

He  seemed  very  weary,  and  after  receiving  them  all, 
asked  to  go  to  his  room  where  he  could  rest. 

"You  will  find  it  wholly  unchanged."  Arthur  said. 
a  Xothing  new  but  gas." 

"  I  trust  I  shall  not  set  the  house  on  fire  this  time,"  was 
Richard's  playful  rejoinder,  as  he  followed  Victor  up  the 
stairs  to  the  old  familiar  chamber,  where  his  valet  left  him 
alone  to  breathe  out  his  fervent  thanksgivings  for  the 

o  o 

many  blessings  bestowed  on  one,  who,  when  last  he  left 
that  room,  had  said  in  his  sorrow,  there  were  no  sunspota 
left. 

The  first  coming  home  he  so  much  dreaded  was  over 
now,  and  had  been  accompanied  with  far  less  pain  than  he 
feared.  He  knew  they  were  glad  to  have  him  back  —  Ar- 
thur and  his  dear  sister,  as  he  always  called  her  now. 
Never  since  the  bridal  night  had  the  name  Edith  passed 
his  lips,  and  if  perchance  he  heard  it  from  others,  he  sbud- 
dmed  inVoluntarily.  Still  the  sound  of  her  voice  had  not 
hurt  Lim  as  he  thought  it  would;  nothing  had  been  half 
BO  hard  as  he  had  anticipated,  and  falling  upon  his  knees, 
he  poured  out  his  soul  in  prayer,  nor  heard  the  steps  upon 
the  th/  eshold  as  Arthur  came  in,  his  heart  too  full  to  tarry 


874  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

outside  longer.  Kneeling  by  Richard,  he,  too,  thanked 
the  Good  Father,  not  so  much  for  his  friend's  safe  return 
as  for  the  boon,  precious  as  life  itself,  which  had  been 
given  to  that  friend. 

When  at  last  their  prayers  were  ended,  both  involunta- 
rily advanced  to  the  window,  where,  with  his  handsome, 
Hianly  face  turned  fully  to  the  light,  Arthur  stood  immov 
able,  nor  flinched  a  hair,  as  Edith  would  ere  long  when 
passing  the  same  ordeal.  He  did  not  ask  what  Richard 
thought  of  him,  neither  did  Richard  tell,  only  the  remark, 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  she  loved  you  best." 

They  then  talked  together  of  a  plan  concerning  Edith, 
after  which  Arthur  left  his  brother  to  the  repose  he  so 
much  needed  ere  joining  them  in  the  parlor  below.  Never 
before  had  pillows  seemed  so  soft  or  bed  so  grateful  as 
that  on  which  Richard  laid  him  down  to  rest,  and  sleep 
was  just  touching  his  heavy  eyelids,  when  upon  the  door 
there  came  a  gentle  rap,  accompanied  with  the  words, 

'•  P'ease,  Uncle  'Ick,  let  Nina  tome.  She's  all  d  essed 
up  so  nice." 

That  little  girl  had  crept  way  down  into  Richard's  heart, 
just  as  she  did  into  every  body's,  and  he  admitted  her  at 
once,  suffering  her  to  climb  up  beside  him,  where,  with 
her  fat,  dimpled  hands  folded  together,  she  sat  talking  to 
him  in  her  sweet  baby  language, 

"  'Ess  go  to  sleep,  Nina  tired,"  she  said  at  last,  and  fold- 
ing his  arms  about  her,  Richard  held  her  to  his  bosom  as 
if  she  had  been  his  own.  "  'Tain't  time  to  say  p'ayers,  is 
it?  "  she  asked, fearing  lest  she  should  omit  her  duty;  and 
when  Richard  inquired  what  her  prayers  were,  she  answered, 

"  Now  I  lay  me  —  and  God  bess  Uncle  'Ick.  Mam-ma 
tell  me  that." 

Richard's  eyes  filled  Avith  tears,  which  the  waxen  fingera 
wiped  away,  and  when  somewhat  later  Victor  cautiously 
looked  in,  he  saw  them  sleeping  there  together,  Nina'g 
golden  head  nestled  in  Richard's  neck,  and  one  of  her  life 
tie  hands  lain  upon  his  cheek. 


SIX   TEAKS   LATEE.  375 

Meantime,  in  Edith's  room  Arthur  was  virtually  super 
intending  the  making  of  his  wife's  evening  toilet,  a  most 
unprecedented  employment  for  mankind  in  general,  and 
him  in  particular.  But  for  some  reason  wholly  inexplica 
ble  to  Edith,  Arthur  was  unusually  anxious  about  her  per* 
Bonal  appearance,  suggesting  among  other  things  that  she 
should  wear  a  thin  pink  muslin,  which  he  knew  so  well 
became  her  dark  style  of  beauty;  and  when  she  reminded 
him  of  its  shortcomings  with  regard  to  waist  and  sleerea, 
he  answered  playfully, 

"  That  does  not  matter.  'Twill  make  you  look  girlish 
and  young." 

So  Edith  donned  the  pink  dress,  and  clasping  upon  her 
neck  and  arms  the  delicate  ornaments  made  from  Nina'a 
hair,  asked  of  Arthur,  "  How  she  looked." 

"  Splendidly,"  he  replied.  "  Handsomer  even  than  on 
our  bridal  night." 

And  Edith  was  handsomer  than  on  the  night  when  sho 
tood  at  the  altar  a  bride,  for  six  years  of  almost  perfect 
happiness  had  chased  away  the  restless,  careworn,  sorrow- 
ful look  which  was  fast  becoming  habitual,  and  now,  at 
twenty-six,  Edith  St.  Claire  was  pronounced  by  the  world 
the  most  strikingly  beautiful  woman  of  her  age.  Poets 
had  sung  of  her  charms,  artists  had  transferred  them  to 
canvas ;  brainless  beaux,  who  would  as  soon  rave  about 
a  married  woman  as  a  single  one,  provided  it  were  the 
fashion  so  to  do,  had  stamped  them  upon  their  hearts ; 
envious  females  had  picked  them  all  to  pieces,  declaring 
her  too  tall,  too  black,  too  hoydenish  to  be  even  pretty; 
while  little  Dick  and  Nina  likened  her  to  the  angels, 
wondering  if  there  were  anything  in  heaven,  save  Aunt 
Nina,  as  beautiful  as  she.  And  this  was  Edith,  who  when 
her  toilet  was  completed  went  down  to  meet  Grace  Ather- 
ton  just  arrived  and  greatly  flurried  when  she  heard  that 
Richard  had  come.  Very  earnestly  the  two  ladies  were 
talking  togethei  when  Arthur  glanced  in  for  a  moment 


876  DARKNESS    AND   DAYLIGHT. 

and  then  hastened  up  to  Richard,  whom  he  found  sitting 
by  the  window,  with  Dick  and  Nina  both  seated  in  his 
lap,  the  former  utterly  astounded  at  the  accuracy  with 
which  his  blind  uncle  guessed  every  time  how  many  fingers 
he  held  up ! 

"Father!  father!"  he  screamed,  as  Arthur  came  in, 
"He  can  see  just  as  good  as  if  he  wasn't  blind!"  and  he 
looked  with  childish  curiosity  into  the  eyes  which  had  dis- 
covered in  his  infantile  features  more  than  one  trace  of  the 
Swedish  Petrea,  grandmother  to  the  boy. 

Arthur  smiled,  and  without  replying  to  his  son,  said  to 
Richard, 

"I  have  come  now  to  take  you  to  Edith.  Grace  Ather- 
ton  is  there,  too  —  a  wonderfully  young  and  handsome 
woman  for  forty-two.  I  am  not  sure  that  you  can  tell 
them  apart. 

"  I  could  tell  your  wife  from  all  the  world,"  was  Rich  • 
ard's  answer,  as  putting  down  the  children  and  resuming 
the  green  shade,  he  went  with  Arthur  to  the  door  of  the 
library,  where  Grace  and  Edith,  standing  with  their  backs 
to  them  were  too  much  engaged  to  notice  that  more  than 
Arthur  was  coming. 

Him  Edith  heard,  and  turning  towards  him  she  was 
about  to  speak,  when  Richard  lowered  the  green  shade  he 
had  raised  fora  single  moment,  and  walking  up  to  her  took 
her  hand  in  his.  Twining  his  fingers  around  her  slender 
wrist  he  said  to  her, 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  window  and  sit  on  a  stool  at  my 
feet  just  as  you  used  to  do." 

Edith  was  suprised,  and  stammered  out  something  about 
Grace's  being  in  the  room. 

"  Never  mind  Mrs.  Atherton,"  he  said, "  I  will  attend  to 
her  by  and  by  —  my  business  is  now  with  you,"  and  he 
led  her  to  the  window,  where  Arthur  had  carried  a  stool. 

Like  lightning  the  truth  flashed  upon  Grace,  and  wi  th  a 
nervous  glance  at  the  mirror  to  see  how  she  herself  wai 


SIX  TEAKS   LATER.  377 

looking  that  afternoon,  she  stood  motionless,  while  Richard 
dashing  the  shade  to  the  floor,  said  to  the  startled  Edith, 

"The  blind  man  would  know  how  Petrea's  daughtel 
looks." 

With  a  frightened  shriek  Edith  covered  up  her  face, 
and  lading  her  head  in  its  old  resting 'place,  Richard's  lap, 
exclaimed, 

"No,  no,  oh  no,  Richard.  Please  not  look  at  me  now. 
Help  me,  Arthur.  Don't  let  him,"  she  continued,  as  she 
felt  the  strong  hands  removing  her  own  by  force.  But 
Arthur  only  replied  by  lifting  up  her  head  himself  and  hold- 
ing in  his  own  the  struggling  hands,  while  Richard  exam- 
ined a  face  seen  now  for  the  first  time  since  its  early  baby- 
hood. Oh  how  scrutinisingly  he  scanned  that  face,  with 
its  brilliant  black  eyes,  where  tears  were  glittering  like 
diamonds  in  the  sunlight,  its  rich  healthful  bloom,  its  proud- 
ly curved  lip,  its  dimpled  chin  and  soft,  round  cheeks. 
What  did  he  think  of  it?  Did  it  meet  his  expectations  ? 
Was  the  face  he  had  known  so  long  in  his  darkness  as 
Edith's,  natural  when  seen  by  daylight  ?  *  Mingled  there  no 
shadow  of  disappointment  in  the  reality  ?  Was  Arthur's 
Edith  at  all  like  Richard's  singing  bird  ?  How  Arthur 
wished  he  knew.  But  Richard  kept  his  own  counsel, 
for  a  time  at  least.  He  did  not  say  what  he  thought  of  her. 
He  only  kissed  the  lips  beginning  to  quiver  with  something 
like  a  grieved  expression  that  Arthur  should  hold  her  so 
long,  kissed  them  twice,  and  with  his  hand  wiped  her  tears 
away,  saying  playfully, 

" '  Tis  too  bad,  Birdie,  I  know,  but  Fve  anticipated  this 
*>our  so  long." 

He  had  not  called  her  Birdie  before,  and  the  familiar 
name  compensated  for  all  the  pain  which  Edith  had  suffered 
when  she  saw  those  strangely  black  eyes  fastened  upon 
her,  and  knew  that  they  could  see.  Springing  to  her  feet 
the  moment  she  Avas  released,  she  jumped  into  his  lap  in 
her  old  impetuous  way,  and  winding  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  sobbed  out, 


378  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  Richard,  so  glad.  You  can't  begin  to 
guess  how  glad,  and  I've  prayed  for  this  every  night  and 
every  day,  Arthur  and  I.  Didn't  we,  Arthur?  Dear, 
dear  Richard,  I  love  you  so  much." 

"  What  he  make  mam-ma  cry  for  ?  asked  a  childish  voice 
from  the  corner  where  little  Dick  stood,  half  frightened  at 
V  hat  he  saw,  his  tiny  fist  doubled  ready  to  do  battle  for  his 
mother  in  case  he  should  make  up  his  mind  that  her  rights 
were  invaded. 

This  had  the  effect  of  rousing  Edith,  who,  faint  with 
excitement,  was  led  by  Arthur  out  into  the  open  air,  thus 
leaving  Richard  alone  with  his  first  love  of  twenty-five 
years  ago.  It  did  not  seem  to  him  possible  that  so  many 
years  had  passed  over  the  face  which,  at  seventeen,  was 
marvellously  beautiful,  and  which  still  was  very,  very  fair 
and  youthful  in  its  look,  for  Grace  was  wondrously  well 
preserved  and  never  passed  for  over  thirty,  save  among  the 
envious  ones,  who,  old  themselves,  strove  hard  to  make 
others  older  still. 

"Time  has  dealt  lightly  with  you,  Grace,"  Richard  said, 
after  the  first  curious  glance.  "  I  could  almost  fancy  you 
were  Grace  ElmendorfF  yet,"  and  he  lifted  gallantly  one 
of  her  chestnut  curls,  just  as  he  used  to  do  in  years  agone, 
when  she  was  Grace  Elmendorff. 

This  little  act  recalled  so  vivedly  the  scenes  of  other 
days  that  Grace  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  hurried 
from  the  room  to  the  parlor  adjoining,  where,  unobserved, 
she  could  weep  again  over  the  hopes  forever  fled.  Thus 
left  to  himself,  with  the  exception  of  little  Dick,  Richard 
had  leisure  to  look  about  him,  descrying  ere  long  the  life- 
sized  portrait  of  Nina  hanging  on  the  wall.  In  an  instant 
he  stood  before  what  was  to  him,  not  so  much  a  picture 
painted  on  rude  canvas,  as  a  living  reality  —  the  golden- 
haired  angel,  who  was  now  as  closely  identified  with  his 
every  thought  and  feeling  as  even  Edith  herself  had  ever 
been.  She  had  followed  him  over  land  and  sea,  bringing 


SIX   TEAKS   LATEB.  379 

comfort  to  him  in  his  dark  hours  of  pain,  coloring  his 
dreams  with  rainbow  hues  of  promise,  buoying  him  up 
and  bidding  him  wait  a  little  —  try  yet  longer,  when  the 
only  hope  worth  his  living  for  now  seemed  to  be  dying 
out,  and  when  at  last  it,  the  wonderful  cure,  was  done,  and 
those  gathered  around  him  said  each  to  the  other  "  II« 
will  see,"  he  heard  nothing  for  the  buzzing  sound  which 
filled  his  ear,  and  the  low  voice  whispering  to  him,  "I  did 
it  —  brought  the  daylight  straight  from  heaven.  God  said 
I  might,  and  I  did.  Nina  takes  care  of  you." 

They  told  him  that  he  had  fainted  from  excess  of  joy, 
but  Richard  believed  that  Nina  had  been  with  him  all  the 
same,  cherishing  that  conviction  even  to  this  hour,  wheo 
he  stood  there  face  to  face  with  her,  unconsciously  saying 
to  himself,  "  Gloriously  beautiful  Nina,  In  all  my  imagin- 
ings of  you  I  never  saw  aught  so  fair  as  this.  Edith  is 
beautiful,  but  not  —  " 

"  As  beautiful  as  Nina  was,  am  I  ?  "  said  a  voice  behind 
him,  and  turning  round,  Richard  drew  Edith  to  his  side, 
and  encircling  her  with  his  arm  answered  frankly, 

"  No,  my  child,  you  are  not  as  beautiful  as  Nina." 

"  Disappointed  in  me,  are  you  not  ?  Tell  me  honestly," 
and  Edith  peered  up  half-archty,  half-timidly  into  the  eyes 
whose  glance  she  scarcely  yet  dared  meet. 

"  I  can  hardly  call  it  disappointment,"  Richard  answered, 
smiling  down  upon  her.  -"You  are  different  looking  from 
what  I  supposed,  that  is  all.  Still  you  are  much  like  what 
I  remember  your  mother  to  have  been,  save  that  her  eyes 
were  softer  than  yours,  and  her  lip  not  quite  so  proudly 
curved." 

"  In  other  words,  I  show  by  ray  face  that  I  am  a  Bernard, 
and  something  of  a  spitfire,"  suggested  Edith,  and  Rich- 
ard rejoined, 

"  I  think  you  do,"  adding  as  he  held  her  a  little  closer 
to  him,  "  Had  I  been  earlier  blessed  with  sight,  I  should 
have  known  I  could  not  tame  you.  I  should  only  have 
spoiled  you  by  indulgence." 


880  ^AJtKNESS   AND    DAYLIGHT. 

Just  at  this  point,  little  Nina  came  in,  and  taking  her  in 
her  arms,  Edith  said, 

"I  wanted  to  call  her  Edith,  after  myself,  as  I  thought 
it  might  please  you ;  but  Arthur  said  no,  she  must  be  Nina 
Bernard." 

"Better  so,"  returned  Richard,  moving  away  from 
the  picture.  "I  can  never  call  another  by  the  name  I 
once  called  you, "  and  this  was  all  the  sign  he  gave  t'  at 
the  wound  was  not  quite  healed. 

But  it  was  healing  fast.  Home  influences  were  already 
doing  him  good,  and  when  at  last  supper  was  announcedt 
he  looked  very  happy  as  he  took  again  his  accustomed 
seat  at  the  table,  with  Arthur  opposite  Edith  just  where 
she  used  to  be,  and  Grace,  sitting  at  his  right.  It  was  a 
pleasant  family  party  they  made,  and  the  servants  mar- 
velled much  to  hear  Richard's  hearty  laugh  mingling  with 
Edith's  merry  peal. 

That  night,  when  the  July  moon  came  up  over  the  New 
England  hills,  it  looked  down  upon  the  four  —  Richard 
and  Arthur,  Grace  and  Edith,  sitting  upon  the  broad 
piazza  as  they  had  not  sat  in  years,  Grace  a  little  apart  from 
the  rest,  and  Edith  between  her  husband  and  Richard,  hold- 
ing a  hand  of  each,  and  listening  intently  while  the  latter 
told  them  how  rumors  of  a  celebrated  Parisian  oculist  had 
reached  him  in  his  wanderings ;  how  he  had  sought  the 
rooms  of  that  oculist,  leaving  them  a  more  hopeful  man 
than  when  he  entered ;  how  the  hope  then  enkindled 
grew  stronger  month  after  month,  until  the  thick  folds  of 
darkness  gave  way  to  a  creamy  kind  of  haze,  which  hovered 
for  weeks  over  his  horizon  of  sight,  growing  gradually 
whiter  and  thinner,  until  faint  outlines  were  disco ven.'d, 
and  to  his  unutterable  joy  he  counted  the  window  panps, 
knowing  then  that  sight  was  surely  coming  back.  He  did 
not  tell  them  how  through  all  that  terrible  suspense  Nina 
eeemed  always  with  him ;  he  would  not  like  to  confess 
how  superstitious  he  had  become,  fully  believing  that 


, 
SIX   YEARS   LATEB.  381 

Nina  was  his  guardian  angel,  that  she  hovered  near  him, 
and  that  the  touch  of  her  soft  littje  hands  had  helped  to 
heal  the  wound  gaping  so  cruelly  when  he  last  bade  adieu 
to  his  native  land.  Richard  was  not  a  spiritualist.  He 
utterly  repudiated  their  wild  theories,  and  built  up  one  of 
his  own,  equally  wild  and  strange,  but  productive  of  no 
evil,  inasmuch  as  no  one  was  admitted  into  his  seci'et,  of 
i^ffered  to  know  of  his  one  acknowledged  sphere  where 
Nina  reigned  supreme.  This  was  something  he  kept  to 
himself,  referring  but  once  to  Nina  during  his  narrative, 
and  that  when  he  said  to  Edith, 

"  You  remember,  darling,  Nina  told  me  in  her  lettei 
that  she'd  keep  asking  God  to  give  me  back  my  sight." 

Edith  cared  but  little  by  whose  agency  this  great  cure 
had  been  accomplished,  and  laying  her  head  on  Richard's 
knee,  just  as  a  girl  she  used  to  do,  she  wept  out  her  joy 
for  sight  restored  to  her  noble  benefactor,  reproaching  him 
for  having  kept  the  good  news  from  them  so  carefully, 
even  shutting  his  eyes  when  he  wrote  to  them  so  that  his 
writing  should  be  natural,  and  the  surprise  when  he  did 
return,  the  greater. 

Meanwhile  Grace's  servant  came  up  to-  accompany  her 
home,  and  she  bade  the  happy  group  good  night,  her  heart 
beating  faster  than  its  wont  as  Richard  said  to  her  at  part- 
ing, "  I  was  going  to  offer  my  sendees,  but  I  see  I  am  fore- 
stalled. My  usual  luck,  you  know,"  and  his  black  eyes 
rested  a  moment  on  her  face  and  then  wandered  to  where 
Edith  sat.  Did  he  mean  anything  by  this?  Had  the 
waves  of  time,  which  had  beaten  and  battei-ed  his  heart 
go  long,  brought  it  back  at  last  to  its  first  starting  point. 
Gi  ace  Elmendorff ?  Time  only  can  tell.  He  believed  his 
youthful  passion  had  died  out  years  ago,  that  matrimony 
was  for  him  an  utter  impossibility. 

He  had  been  comparatively  Uappy  across  the  sea,  and  he 
was  happier  still  now  that  he  was  at  home,  wishing  he 
had  come  before,  and  wondering  why  it  was  that  the  sight 


I 
882  DARKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

of  Edith  did  not  pain  him,  as  he  feared  it  would.  Ilu 
u'ked  to  look  at  her,  to  hear  her  musical  voice,  to  watch 
her  graceful  movements  as  she  flitted  about  the  house,  and 
as  the  days  and  weeks  went  on  he  grew  young  again  in 
her  society,  until  he  was  much  like  the  Richard  to  whom 
she  once  said,  "  I  will  be  your  wife,"  save  that  his  raven 
hair  was  tinged  with  grey,  making  him,  as  some  thought, 
finer-looking  than  ever.  To  Arthur  and  Edith  he  was 
like  a  dearly  beloved  brother ;  while  to  Dick  and  Nina  he 
was  all  the  world.  He  was  very  proud  of  little  Dick,  but 
Nina  was  his  pet,  as  she  was  everybody's  who  knew  her, 
and  she  ere  long  learned  to  love  him  better,  if  possible, 
than  she  did  her  father,  calling  him  frequently  "  her  oldest 
papa,"  and  wondering  in  her  childish  way  why  he  kissed 
her  so  tenderly  as  often  as  she  lisped  out  that  dear  name. 

And  now  but  little  more  remains  to  tell.  It  is  four 
months  since  Richard  came  home,  and  the  hazy  Indian 
summer  sun  shines  o'er  the  New  England  hills,  bathing 
Collingwood  in  its  soft,  warm  rays,  and  falling  upon  the 
tall  bare  trees  and  the  withered  grass  below,  carpeted 
with  leaves  of  many  a  bright  hue.  On  the  velvety  sward, 
which  last  summer  showed  so  rich  a  green,  the  children 
are  racing  up  and  down,  Dick's  cheeks  glowing  like  the 
scarlet  foliage  he  treads  beneath  his  feet,  and  Nina's  fair 
hair  tossing  in  the  autumn  wind,  which  seems  to  blow  less 
rudely  on  the  little  girl  than  on  her  stronger  older  brother. 
On  one  of  the  iron  seats  scattered  over  the  lawn  sits, 
Richard,  watching  them  as  they  play,  not  moodily,  not 
mourrfully,  for  grief  and  sorrow  have  no  lodgment  in  tha 
once  blind  Richard's  heart,  and  he  verily  believes  that  he 
is  as  happy  without  Edith  as  he  could  possibly  have  Wen 
with  her.  She  is  almost  everything  to  him  now  that  a 
wife  could  be  consulting  his  wishes  before  her  own  or  Ar- 
thur's, and  making  all  else  subservient  to  them.  No  royal 
sovereign  ever  lorded  it  over  his  subjects  more  complete!} 


SIX  TEAES   LA.TEB.  383 

than  couM  Richard  over  Collingwood,  if  he  chose,  for  mas- 
ter and  servants  alike  yield  him  unbounded  deference; 
but  Richard  is  far  too  gentle  to  abuse  the  power  vested  in 
his  hands,  and  so  he  rules  by  perfect  love,  whi«h  knows 
no  shadow  of  distrust.  The  gift  of  sight  has  compensated 
for  all  his  olden  pain,  and  often  to  himself  he  says,  "  I 
Would  hardly  be  blind  again  for  the  sake  of  Edith's  first 
affections." 

He  calls  her  Edith  now,  just  as  he  used  to  do,  and  Edith 
knows  that  only  a  scar  is  left  as  a  memento  of  the  fearful 
sacrifice.  The  morning  has  broken  at  last,  the  darkness 
passed  away,  and  while  basking  hi  the  full,  rich  daylight, 
both  Richard  and  Arthur,  and  Edith  wonder  if  they  are 
the  same  to  whom  the  world  was  once  so  dreary.  Only 
over  Grace  Atherton  is  any  darkness  brooding.  She  can- 
not forget  the  peerless  boon  she  threw  away  when  she 
deliberately  said  to  Richard  Harrington,  "  I  will  not  walk 
in  your  shadow,"  and  the  love  she  once  bore  him  is  alive 
in  all  its  force,  but  so  effectually  concealed  that  few  sus- 
pect its  existence. 

Richard  goes  often  to  Brier  Hill  staying  sometimes  hours, 
and  Victor,  with  his  opinion  of  the  "  gay  widow"  somewhat 
changed,  has  more  than  once  hinted  at  Collingwood  how 
he  thinks  these  visits  will  end.  But  the  servants  scoffed 
at  the  idea,  while  Arthur  and  Edith  look  curiously  on, 
half  hoping  Victor  is  right,  and  so  that  matter  remains  in 
•ancertainty. 

Across  the  fields  Grassy  Spring  still  lies  a  mass  of  shape- 
less ruins.  Frequently  has  Arthur  talked  of  rebuilding  h 
:is  a  home  for  his  children,  but  as  Richard  has  -always 
opposed  it  and  Edith  is  indifferent,  he  will  probably  remain 
at  Collingwood. 

Away  to  the  south,  the  autumn  winds  blow  softly  around 
Sunnybank,  where  Edith's  negroes  are  living  as  happy 
under  the  new  administration  as  the  old,  speaking  often 
of  their  beautiful  mistress,  who,  when  the  winter  snows 


381  DABKNESS   AND   DAYLIGHT. 

fall  on  the  oay  State  hilts,  will  wend  her  way  to  the  south- 
ward, and  Christmas  fires  will  again  be  kindled  upon  the 
hearthstones  left  desolate  so  many  years.  Nor  is  she, 
whose  little  grave  lies  just  across  the  field,  forgotten.  En- 
eluined  is  her  memory  within  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew 
and  loved  her,  while  away  to  the  northward  where  the  cy- 
press and.  willow  mark  the  resting-place  of  Shannondale's 
dead,  a  costly  marble  rears  its  graceful  column,  pointing 
far  upward  to  the  sky,  the  home  of  her  whose  name  that 
marble  bears.  "NiNA."  That  is  all.  No  laudations 
deeply  cut  tell  what  she  was  or  where  she  died.  "NiXA." 
Nothing  more.  And  yet  this  single  word  has  a  power  to 
touch  the  deepest,  tenderest  feelings  of  two  hearts  at 
leas},  Arthur's  and  Edith's  —  speaking  to  them  of  the  little 
golden-haired  girl  who  crossed  so  innocently  their  path- 
way, striving  hard  to  efface  all  prints  of  her  footsteps,  car- 
ing to  the  last  for  her  "  Arthur  boy,"  and  the  "  Miggie  " 
she  loved  so  well,  and  calling  to  them,  as  it  were,  even  after 
the  rolling  river  was  safely  forded,  and  she  was  landed  be- 
side the  still  waters  in  the  bright,  green  fields  of  Eden. 

And  now  to  the  sweet  little  girl  and  the  noble  man  who, 
through  the  mazy  labyrinths  of  Darkness  and  of  Daylight, 
Lave  grown  so  strongly  into  our  love,  whose  fa:\es  were 
familiar  as  our  own,  whose  names  were  household  words, 
over  whose  sorrows  our  tears  have  fallen  like  rain,  and  in 
whose  joys  we  have  rejoiced,  we  bid  a  £nal  adieu.  Fare- 
well to  thee,  beautiful  NINA.  "  Earth  kuth  none  fairer  lost. 
Heaven  none  purer  gained."  Fareweix  ta  tb°e  forever, 
and  blessings,  rich  and  rare,  distil  like  evening  dew  upon 
ihe  dear  head  of  the  brave-hearted,  generous  hero 

AM)  HjLRfilNGTON. 

THE 


prt 

53 


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